The Masculine Urge to Care: Roosters and I

This article originally appeared on The Animal Politics Collective. All photos below are courtesy of the author.

I have been navigating, and somehow surviving, the Western colonial gender binary my entire life. I contain multitudes of descriptors that can be categorized into the established binary: the feminine dancer, crafter, and caregiver who enjoys sparkles and comfort, and the masculine tractor driver, a metal worker, and farmer who owns only work boots and always has a pocket multi tool. I do not fit comfortably into the concepts “Man” or “Woman,” and I do not feel that it is necessary to my happiness, or anyone else’s, to contort myself into those boxes. I neither fit into the gender I was assumed at birth, or the opposite option. That is why the phrase trans non-binary is most apt for me. Having the language to describe my gender, however, does not make the insecurity of not being a Man or a Woman any easier to handle. 

Humans constructed the gender binary because we, as a species, have a desire to categorize and sort and define, well, all of the world. Eschewing that binary categorization may be why I feel most at home with nonhuman animals—as far as humans know, they have not evolved a comparable system of gender (binary sex characteristics and expectations are also not as clear cut in the nonhuman world as we were taught to believe, but that exploration is for another time). I feel a kinship with the animals who are stereotyped into genders without their consent, and feel most myself in their company because they do not seem bothered by my transness. 

My career and chosen priority in life is to care for nonhuman animals who have been wronged by humans. This desire to care for animals is often assumed to be a culturally feminine action. There is vulnerability in accepting the many emotions in response to seeing suffering, hoping against hope, and accepting hard truths about death. Caring for nonhuman animals requires an understanding of consent and comfort. Caring for loved ones is traditionally considered a “woman’s role” and it is my calling—but I am not a woman. So, I emphasize the gross and difficult parts of care, instead of sharing the soft and tender parts, in order to prove I am still manly while doing this work. 

Caregiving while not being a woman makes my masculinity feel very fragile. Strength, courage, and assertiveness (the top masculine traits listed by Wikipedia) may be infinite resources, but masculinity is approached with an intense scarcity mindset in the United States. There just isn’t enough bravery and pride to go around, leading to Men™️ who constantly need to prove how tough, fearless, and aggressive they are—the great trifecta of masculinity—so other Men™️ will respect them as an equal. Men™️ do not need to depend on others for their survival, success, or comfort. They avoid vulnerability, connection, and sharing emotions with others. Boys are taught early in life that actions of affection are a ‘girly’ sign of weakness; Men™ don’t cry. These Men™️ toxically define masculinity by how others see them and their choices, and ensure the only interpretation is that they are tough, fearless, and aggressive. They would rather start a bar fight than buy a pink razor or vanilla scented candle for themselves.               

Unfortunately, due to the cultural stigmas I described above, my embrace of the gentler nature of animal caregiving juxtaposed with the expectations of masculinity to be above feeling empathy, leaves my masculinity wanting. I feel that I must overcompensate for qualities of care in order for my trans non-binary gender to be valid. 

That is what I have in common with toxically masculine Men™️: the feeling of not being tough enough in order to be respected. Should my cultivated masculinity be overlooked, the core of who I am as non-binary will be erased. It is as if I must reach a certain threshold of masculinity before my gender, the essence of who I am, is accepted without qualification. I do not want to destroy the feminine, but I have been consciously and subconsciously trying to hide it, trying to elevate my masculinity so that society will not look at my actions and qualify them with a marginalized gender. I’m not a Man™️, but I want my masculinity to be unquestioned. It feels like a huge ask in a world where cismen can have masculinity so fragile that eating tofu can throw their ego into a tailspin. What hope do I, the non-binary vegan, have to be considered masculine enough? 

Enter the third player in my masculinity crisis: The Rooster.

An older rooster who lived in sanctuary after being rescued from a hoarding case.

Ask anyone who has met one (1) rooster, and they will tell you: male chickens are aggressive, mean, and boy, are those spurs sharp. Roosters are stereotyped as tough, fearless, and aggressive (recall the great masculine trifecta). Casual knowledge insists they cannot live with other roosters, they are unnecessarily noisy, and they will hurt you because that’s ‘what they do.’ I have cared for hundreds of roosters, and hope I get the privilege to care for hundreds more—and to keep busting those stereotypes about them. In reality, humans took away the opportunity for the rooster to do what he does naturally, and put our own gendered expectations and meanings on them and their behaviors. I am here to argue that we must undo our cultural stigmatization of roosters and use their behaviors to define our masculinity instead. 

The stereotypes assigned to roosters stem from natural behaviors that are beneficial to the species. Chickens are descended from free living jungle fowl in Southeast Asia. Male chickens are vocal protectors of the flock. Their crow is a sign of maturity and confidence, the literal loudspeaker standing guard over his territory and flock. However, it is also a call for teamwork, a means of communicating with the other chickens in his flock. They utter more than crows, too, such as a hut-hut-hut chuckle sound to alert their flock that food, or a new individual, is near. A rooster will put himself in the line of danger for his family—but so will a mother hen. Wild flocks consist of multiple roosters living among multiple hens, working together to keep everyone safe and fed. Male infighting is no more common than in other species, or even among hens for that matter, and stops well before death. None of a rooster’s natural ‘masculine’ coded characteristics are inherently violent for the sake of violence.

Two roosters rescued from the same fighting breeder now living together in sanctuary after being rehabilitated and introduced to other birds. 

Still, the masculine traits of roosters have been taken out of context, exploited and honed to fight for human sport. Fight training involves isolating the male chicken from all other birds, confining him, and mutilating his body. He is deprived of all stimuli and injected with steroids and adrenaline. When he is taken out of isolation, he is thrown into the new environment of a fight ring with loud sounds and glaring lights, in front of another similarly over-stimulated rooster. This is hardly an extension of natural tendencies, but a human created process to establish fear of other roosters, and the understanding they must kill in order to not be killed. Over time and training, fighting roosters act, however consciously or subconsciously, as though their value is dependent on diminishing the value and life of another. There is only room for one of them, and it will be determined through blood and violence.

Randall, a rooster rescued from fighting, living in sanctuary.

Early in my animal care career, I was tasked with rehabilitating fighting roosters, without much know-how. I was unprepared and faced with dozens of terrified, traumatized, and frankly intimidatingly mutilated chickens. Their new challenge was to relearn that other birds and humans are not inherently dangerous. It was daunting to walk into a barn where you could feel the readied tension, the defensiveness in every set of bird eyes fixated on you. I have scars from trying to feed crated roosters, who had never known kindness from a human. I have not one, but two pairs of broken eyeglasses from roosters going for my eyes, presumably because they thought their survival depended on offensive defense. I learned through trial and error that what they needed was a guided, and gentle, mental rewiring of what was expected of them—and when I made that realization, I was face to face with my own masculinity. 

This is what the fighting rooster, toxically masculine Men™️, and I have in common: scarcity mindset that there isn’t enough respect to go around, and the idea that relating to others through care makes us weak. The fighting rooster is taught to eliminate the other, to prove he is the strongest and bravest, worthy of survival. The toxically masculine Man™️ must prove he is capable and fearless because affection and emotion make him weak. I am afraid my toughness and independence are overshadowed by the care I give to my companions and wards. 

This is the problem. We—the fighting rooster, toxically masculine Men™️, and I—all have a masculine urge to prove that our continued existence is worth the time and resources and acknowledgement of others. That urge is motivated by the fear of not being enough. We need to unlearn the arbitrary patterns and values placed on the binary. We need to rewire our mentalities to know we are worthy of existing as we are, and we need not abandon our instincts of care. 

Two young roosters rescued from a fighting breeder on either side of an older rooster in sanctuary, living together in a flock.

Much of the change I saw in roosters rescued from fighting was gradual. There were times I would walk into a coop and see two roosters sharing a perch, not noticing the significance, only to do a double take and realize the two roosters had not been able to coexist with another bird in any capacity a few months ago. There are other mundane, but significant, milestones. Roosters will “dance” for other hens and roosters, and the three I see often are: “I’m dancing to impress you,” “I’m dancing to intimidate you,” and “I’m gently head bobbing to share a snack with you,” usually in that order. When I saw a former fighting rooster doing the snack dance for another rooster, it meant that he knew he was more than safe—he knew there was enough to go around. 

I posit a new way to consider masculinity, based on the metaphor of the fighting rooster. Roosters naturally want to care for each other, but humans decided to focus and exploit the actions that cause fear and aggression. Instead of using the human definition of masculinity on roosters, we can use the roosters’ traits to guide human masculinity. We can define masculinity not through competition, but by community. Like roosters, both wild and those who are rehabilitated from fighting, we can be dependent on teamwork and still protect ourselves and friends. We can offer food to others before partaking ourselves but still be assertive. We can make soft noises of affection for other roosters and hens, and still produce an ear splitting crow. Personal masculinity can be measured by our recognition that we can exist without proving our worth, and without demanding others prove theirs in order to be cared for. 

That’s how I am redefining masculinity. It will not be driven by fear, but fueled by care for myself and others, and not being afraid to loudly crow that I, and my flock, are safe.

Roswell and Nathan, two young roosters who were abandoned alone, were introduced to each other in sanctuary and now live together with a flock.