Man Made: A Memoir of My BodyBy Ken Baker
Tarcher Putnam/$23.95
You are a gifted athlete. Growing up, you kicked ass as a goalie on the ice, playing hockey well enough to earn you a full scholarship to Colgate University. Upon graduation, you head to the city of lost angels to seek fame and fortune, where prosperity is often measured by the number of Tinseltown social gatherings one is invited to, and the company one keeps. Meeting with moderate success, you manage an invitation to a glitzy bash. At the party, Drew Barrymore is flirting with you, so much in fact, that fucking her appears like not only a great idea but a very real possibility. At least, that is, until the notion that your saggy tits may begin leaking milk the moment you take off your shirt and expose your feminine-like girth, and your ever-impotent manhood will only humiliate you further. So you excuse yourself and get the hell out.
Say what?
Ken Baker was an exceptional hockey player during high school and college. He also carried baggage that would weigh heavily on any young man's psyche. In addition to not being able to get it up, lactating breasts and a feminine build, the fact that he really wasn't interested in sex during his entire youth made for even more curiosity as to what the flaw in his biological makeup was. It wasn't until his 20s that the author and subject learned a tumor at the base of the brain was responsible for his body producing an outrageous amount of prolactin, a pituitary hormone, where vastly increased levels are usually only associated with nursing mothers.
Throughout his book, Baker demonstrates remarkable insight and incredible self-control as he deals with feelings of gender transcendence, self-hatred and doubt, detailing his emotional yet impossible struggle to fill the shoes of the stereotypical young, testosterone-driven American male. The author attempts to share a bit of the hell he endured growing up. With Man Made, he succeeds.
—William Stone
This article appears in Jun 7-13, 2001.