The male camaraderie they found running our college’s beer club helped them settle into masculinity. “Then I realized I liked dressing that way.” While bartending, they shifted to more masculine fashion to dissuade unwanted advances and to fit into the beer-bro culture. They worked on a queer dairy farm, bartended at a brewery, studied microbiology, and made pickles for fun. Gil Verrelli was already an avid fermenter when we met during our freshman year of college. I couldn’t understand how nobody noticed.īut who can see cheese in a glass of milk? I could see my masculinity under the surface like the curd before it’s cut.

My body changed as the milk did, hardened and sharpened with the hours of labor. When they referred to me as “my guy” or “flee” or “bro,” I felt assimilated.

Maybe then others would forget about my gender. I wanted to be the most knowledgeable, the most capable, the best cheesemaker I could be. I asked mongers when the Consider Bardwell would be restocked, compared the merits of Bayley Hazen to Dunbarton Blue, and discussed the best temperature for the gooey Bonne Bouche. I ran ragged demonstrating my stamina and strength, did any task left undone, accepted all offers of overtime, and took comfort in every moment I was treated like one of the guys.Įach shift, I used my lunch money to buy cheese from the case, cultivating an encyclopedic knowledge of what they had on offer. I felt doubted at every step as coworkers took 2,000-pound carts out of my hands, told me to mop the cooler while they finished loading pallets, or brought up the previous female hire who hadn’t lasted. A 10-hour shift making cheddar requires lifting 40- to 60-pound blocks hundreds of times. I spent more than half a year proving myself. And what did it matter what I wore anyway since customers only saw me in uniform? The white shirt, navy pants, and red boots made all us cheesemakers the same. I had the ready-made excuse of food safety when I cut my hair-a fade fit better under a hairnet. My undershirt was whey-saturated and stinking by the end of each shift, so free T-shirts were the logical choice. I had to change in and out of uniform a dozen times a day, so sweatpants were the efficient option. The clothes I wore to Beecher’s were dictated by convenience.

H and m ad with transgender