Rethinking Gender Beyond Biology

Note

This post reflects my own process of learning about gender and trans experiences. At no point do I intend to define or speak for trans people. My goal is simply to share what I’ve learned, the insights I’ve gained and the questions I’ve grappled with.

When it comes to understanding gender, we are often told to start with biology. Chromosomes, hormones and anatomy form the standard framework for defining what it means to be male or female. But I’ve come to believe that this framework, while useful in certain contexts, is fundamentally limited when it comes to understanding gender identity.

To me, biological sex is like a bottle. It has a shape, a colour a material. But what really matters is what’s inside. The contents. The substance. In this analogy, the bottle represents the body, and the contents (milk, juice, water) represent gender identity. What makes a person a man, a woman or nonbinary is not the bottle they were born in, but what they carry within them.

This isn’t just a poetic metaphor. It aligns with a growing body of neuroscience suggesting that gender identity might have roots in brain structure—material, biological differences in the brain that are independent of reproductive anatomy. Some trans individuals have brain patterns that more closely resemble those of their identified gender rather than their assigned sex at birth. These differences aren’t just theoretical, they show up in scans, in developmental pathways and in lived experience.

Critics often point to chromosomes or genitalia as the final word on gender. But if we accept that the brain is the seat of the self—of thought, feeling, and identity—then surely it should be given greater weight than the body parts we can see. After all, we don’t define a person’s personality, intelligence or emotional world by the shape of their feet or the number of ribs they have. Why should gender be any different?

I believe gender types are innate. Not learned, not conditioned, not a result of cultural programming, but built in, hardwired, perhaps even before birth. That’s why attempts to “correct” gender identity through social pressure or behavioral therapy don’t work. You can’t pour milk into a bottle of juice and expect it to become juice. The contents are what they are.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the recent debates over legal definitions of sex and gender. Laws can legislate the “bottle”, the visible, measurable markers of sex, but they cannot legislate the “contents”, the internal sense of self that truly defines someone.

From my perspective as someone still learning about gender, I’ve come to see that internal identity is what truly defines a person, not anatomy. Many trans women, for example, live every aspect of their lives as women—not because of surgery or clothing, but because of who they are on the inside. This is my understanding as an ally, not a prescription for anyone else’s experience, and I hope it reflects what I’ve learned rather than trying to explain what anyone “needs” to know.

It’s important to acknowledge that the science around gender identity is still in its infancy. While there is growing evidence pointing to biological factors (such as brain structure and hormonal influences) there’s no single, conclusive explanation yet. The relationship between gender identity, brain patterns and genetics is complex, and we are still learning how these aspects fit together.

That said, the point I’m making isn’t that gender identity can be reduced to biology alone. Instead, biological aspects—particularly those related to brain function—deserve more recognition in the conversation. Much like how we don’t reduce a person’s intelligence, personality or emotions to a single biological feature (like the size of their brain), gender identity should not be defined solely by physical markers. It’s the lived experience—the internal sense of self—that truly defines us.

In the end, we have to ask: what makes a person who they are? Is it the visible, the measurable, the externally assigned? Or is it the felt, the known, the lived experience of being? For me, the answer is clear. It’s not the bottle that defines us, it’s the contents.

Calvinism and Arminianism Harmoised

When I used to be a Christian, I went through several shifts in what I believed, not just about doctrine, but about the very nature of God. One of the biggest changes for me was moving from a traditional evangelical view of salvation (where only the “saved” avoid hell) to Christian Universalism, the belief that, in the end, everyone will be reconciled to God.

That change didn’t happen overnight. I’d been brainwashed by a theology that drew sharp lines between the “elect” and the “damned”, between eternal joy and eternal suffering. But as time went on, I started to wonder if a belief like that could really reflect a God who is love.

As I moved towards Universalism, I also moved away from Calvinism. I could no longer accept the idea that God created some people for salvation and others for damnation. It felt incompatible with any meaningful definition of goodness or justice. I found the Calvinist vision of God not just troubling, but blasphemous—a distortion of divine love. Arminianism, while still not fully in agreement with my Universalist views, at least held to the idea that God desires everyone to be saved. So this was a theology I could be comfortable with.

I remember at one point considering joining a Methodist church. Methodism is rooted in Arminian theology, and while I knew that Arminians aren’t Universalists, I felt more at home with their view of a God who sincerely seeks the salvation of all people. My thinking was that Christian Universalism harmonises both Arminian and Calvinist insights: yes, God has chosen an elect, as Calvinism teaches—but that elect is not an exclusive club; it is simply those who have accepted Christ in this life. And yes, God desires to save all, as Arminianism teaches—and he will do so, even if that salvation comes in the life to come. Seen in this way, the theological conflict between Arminians and Calvinists dissolves into something greater and joyous.

So even though I didn’t fully align myself with Arminianism, I felt no tension about attending an Arminian church. The real issue was Calvinism. I couldn’t bring myself to worship with those who believed in a God who would intentionally create people for eternal suffering. That was not a God I could love or trust. In contrast, the Arminian vision—though imperfect—pointed in the direction of a God whose character I could love.

In the end, theology isn't just about ideas. It's about the kind of God you believe in, and whether that God is worthy of your love, trust and worship. For me, the God of Christian Universalism was. The God of Calvinism was not.

Dell Deaton and the Rolex Explorer 1016 in the Bond Novels

In the world of James Bond fandom, the Rolex Explorer 1016 is often regarded as the watch Ian Fleming intended for Bond. This view derives largely from Dell Deaton’s 2009 article in WatchTime, titled 'Found: James Bond's Rolex'. In it, he argues that the Explorer is Bond’s definitive watch, citing Fleming’s personal preference for the model and references in the novels. However, on closer examination, several of Deaton’s claims become questionable, and the idea that the Explorer is Bond’s definitive watch becomes tenuous.

One of Deaton’s main arguments is that the Explorer—worn by Fleming himself—was also the watch Fleming chose for Bond. He asserts that the Explorer mentioned in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service is the same model Fleming owned, creating a direct link between Fleming’s personal watch and Bond’s. However, this claim relies more on speculation than concrete evidence. While the novel’s description of Bond’s watch might resemble the Explorer, the text never explicitly confirms this. Fleming’s preference for the model is interesting, but there is no definitive proof that it influenced his choice of watch for Bond.

Another flaw in Deaton’s argument is regarding the role of product placement and market trends. As a journalist and writer, Fleming would probably have been aware of the brands associated with Bond’s sophisticated image. While he clearly favoured Rolex—having bought an Explorer in 1961 or 1962—the brand’s appearance in the novels might simply reflect its prestige rather than any personal connection Fleming had to a single model.

Deaton’s case weakens further when examining Thunderball, where Bond undertakes an underwater mission. During a 300-yard dive to inspect the Disco Volante, Bond is described as wearing a Rolex. Deaton reasonably assumes this must be a Submariner 6538, given its 200-meter water resistance. However, he speculates that the Submariner was issued by Q Branch, stating, "It’s likely that Q had provided this particular watch as well". The word "likely" reveals the assumption behind this claim, as there is no textual evidence that Q Branch supplied the watch. If the Submariner was not issued by Q Branch, it suggests it could have been Bond’s definitive watch—bringing into question the idea that the Explorer 1016 was his definitive watch.

As I mentioned in my previous blog post, 'The Mystery of James Bond’s Rolex', the Rolex 6200 might provide an insight into why Deaton links Bond’s watch with the Explorer. The 6200 had a 200-meter water resistance rating, making it a more practical choice for Bond’s underwater activities than the Explorer, which was limited to 50 meters. The 6200 also combined elements of both the Explorer and the Submariner, featuring the Explorer’s 3-6-9 dial alongside a rotating bezel.

While the 6200 was not explicitly labelled as a Submariner, it shared many of the same characteristics, making it a strong candidate for Bond’s watch. Yet, Deaton overlooks this model, instead emphasising the Explorer. His focus on the 3-6-9 dial as an Explorer-only feature ignores the possibility that the 6200’s hybrid design could bridge the gap between the Explorer and Submariner, making it a more obvious choice as Bond’s definitive watch.

Ultimately, Deaton’s argument is based on the idea that Bond’s watch is a fixed, definitive model. However, Fleming’s descriptions are deliberately vague, leaving room for interpretation. In Thunderball, Bond’s watch is simply referred to as a “Rolex Oyster Perpetual”, without specifying a model. While Deaton champions the Explorer as Bond’s definitive watch, Fleming’s vagueness suggests he never intended Bond to be associated with a single model.

In the end, the case for the Rolex Explorer 1016 as Bond’s definitive watch remains unproven. While Deaton presents a well-researched perspective, his conclusions rely heavily on assumptions and speculative connections that don’t hold up under scrutiny.

The Mystery of James Bond’s Rolex

I came across an interesting forum discussion on a James Bond forum called “Absolutely James Bond” that discussed which watch Bond wore in the Ian Fleming novels:

https://www.ajb007.co.uk/discussion/35980/bond-s-watch-in-the-thunderball-novel

Apparently, in the world of James Bond fandom, the watch he is said to wear is a Rolex Explorer 1016, and the consensus has been for many years that this is the watch that Fleming intended for him to wear. However, the forum discussion posited that this was not the watch he wore.

The discussion was initiated by a forum member called ”Osris”, who brought up an interesting point about the Rolex Explorer 1016, and argued that while the Explorer 1016 is commonly associated with Bond, there is a gap in the timeline when the novels are examined. He said:

’In the Thunderball novel, Bond is mentioned as wearing a water resistant watch on his dive to examine the underside of The Disco Volante. As the novel was published in 1961, and completed probably up to a year before that, this would make the watch unlikely to be the Explorer 1016, as that only came into production in 1963.’

He went on to make a persuasive case that if Bond had been wearing an earlier model of the Explorer, the water resistance would only have been rated to 50 metres—far less a depth rating than Bond would need for his diving activities. Osris said that this brought into question the practicality of the Explorer for a spy who is frequently involved in dangerous underwater activities, leading him to suggest that it was more likely that Bond wore a Rolex Submariner.

As the discussion progressed, Osris and other forum members pointed out that the Rolex Submariner 6538 (a model introduced in 1956) fits the description much more closely. This watch had a 200-metre water resistance rating, making it far more suitable for a spy involved in underwater activities. 

For Osris, the 6538 was also seen as a more fitting choice for someone with Bond’s background in the navy. The design of the Submariner being a more practical and appropriate watch for Bond, who was constantly involved in situations that required diving.

Another interesting point raised in the discussion was about a remark made by Felix Leiter in Thunderball, where he describes Bond’s watch as “old”. Osris said that since the Explorer 1016 came out in 1959, it would have been difficult for Leiter to describe it as “old” by the time Thunderball was written in 1961. This, again, indicates a different model being worn by Bond that was probably older and in line with Osris’s theory that it was the Submariner 6538.

As the discussion progressed, the Rolex 6200 came up. This came out in the mid-1950s, and had a 200-metre water resistance rating. This model was seen as relevant because it combines characteristics of both the Explorer and the Submariner: it has the Explorer's dial design and the Submariner's rotating bezel. However, it also had the “Oyster Perpetual” label rather than "Submariner" label on its dial, and so had no specific branding indicating it as a Submariner.

The hybrid nature of the 6200 led some forum members to wonder whether this could have been the model Fleming had in mind when describing Bond’s watch, although like with the Explorer and Submariner, the evidence is only speculative.

Another element brought up in the thread was Ian Fleming’s own vagueness when describing Bond’s watch. As a forum member called ”Donald Grant” pointed out in the discussion, Fleming was known for equipping Bond with products he (Fleming) personally liked, but when it came to the watch, he left the details purposefully ambiguous. In fact, Bond’s watch was only described as a “Rolex Oyster Perpetual”, and no further details were provided, which has left Bond fans to fill in the gaps over the years.

Fleming’s personal connection to the Explorer 1016 is well known, but as the discussion progressed, it was posited that his lack of precision could have been intentional, leaving room for the reader’s imagination. Donald Grant argued that Fleming’s main goal was to simply associate Bond with a Rolex, rather than a specific model, which is why the exact model of the watch remains open to debate.

The discussion has been an eye-opener for me. A few years ago, I read an article by Dell Deaton, a well-known writer in the world of James Bond horology, who is recognised for his research into the Rolex Explorer 1016 and its connection to James Bond. In the article, Deaton argued that Bond's watch in the novels was a Rolex Explorer 1016. However, none of the observations made in the forum discussion were mentioned in the article, which now leads me to believe that Deaton's research may not have been as thorough as it could have been.

What is clear from the discussion is that the question of which Rolex Bond wore in the novels is far from settled. As Osris and other forum members pointed out, we may never know for sure which Rolex Bond did wear.

See also:

'Dell Deaton and the Rolex Explorer 1016 in the Bond Novels'

https://jeffrey-side.blogspot.com/2025/03/dell-deaton-and-rolex-explorer-1016-in.html

What’s in a Name?: The Art & Language Group and Conceptual Poetry

(Adapted from an article I wrote for The Argotist Online in 2013)

In his 2013 article, ‘Charmless and Interesting: What Conceptual Poetry Lacks and What It’s Got’ Robert Archambeau asks: ‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’ The answer to this question would clarify the relationship between conceptual poetry, conceptual art and the generally accepted definition of poetry as being specifically a literary art whereby language is utilised aesthetically and evocatively.

That some of the concerns and practices of conceptual poetry are not new in the world of conceptual art needs no extensive repetition here. However, it is interesting to note that in relation to conceptual poetry’s use of texts and lexical elements to comprise its works, a fairly recent historical precedent already exists. This can be seen in the theories, practices and works of 1960s conceptual artists such as Lawrence Weiner, Edward Ruscha and Robert Barry; and also in the theories, practices and works of the conceptual art group known as Art & Language, which was formed by Terry Atkinson, Michael Baldwin, Harold Hurrell and David Bainbridge in 1968. Others affiliated with this group, included Ian Burn, Michael Corris, Preston Heller, Graham Howard, Joseph Kosuth, Andrew Menard, Terry Smith, Philip Pilkington and David Rushton. These artists were among the first to produce art from textual and lexical sources.

The notable similarity between the theories of this group and those of conceptual poetry’s is that the group developed, extended and championed the conceptual theories that were initiated by artists such as Marcel Duchamp. The group also held the view that the practice of art should be systematically theoretical and entirely separated from concerns relating to craft or aesthetics. These and other ideas appeared in the group’s journal, Art-Language, the first issue of which appeared in 1969.

A direct parallel with the works of these artists and those produced by conceptual poets is not my intention here. There will be differences in scale (both physical and theoretical) and presentation between them; suffice to say, that the common element they share is that of a conceptual approach to their works, and as such, this leads us back to Archambeau’s question (‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’), and also one that I would like to ask. If it is at all possible to agree that both the Art & Language group and conceptual poetry share similar theoretical stances and working practices, then in what sense is the work produced by conceptual poetry more suited to be called poetry than that of the Art & Language group?

In one of the two Facebook discussions I took part in a few years ago about Archambeau’s question, it was mentioned by someone that the term “poetry” was merely an honorific one, conferred by the academy on what it deemed was poetry: the logical extension of this being that if the academy should deem, for instance, a text-book to be poetry then it would have to be accepted that a text-book was, indeed, poetry. In response to this, someone else mentioned that the approach of the literary theorist Roman Jakobson was more reasonable, in that Jakobson saw poetry as marked by specific functions in language rather than by an arbitrary redesignation by the academy of general texts. I agreed with the latter.

In light of this, it seems to me that given that there is no significant difference between the work of the Art & Language group and that of conceptual poetry, for the work of the latter to be designated as poetry whilst that of the former is not, seems a peculiarly inconsistent and whimsical act on the part of the academy. It seems to me, that neither the Art & Language group nor conceptual poetry can accurately be described as producing works of poetry, given that they are both operating from within a conceptual art aesthetic and theoretical stance.

A Journey Through Christianity and Beyond

For many years, I identified as a Christian. It wasn’t just a label—it influenced how I viewed the world, formed my values and approached life. But over time, I began to re-evaluate my beliefs, and I eventually stopped identifying with Christianity. Here’s why.

It started with contemplative prayer. I practised it regularly for months and noticed it produced a sense of calm and connection that felt very familiar. Years earlier, I’d experienced exactly the same thing when practising Eastern meditation. This raised a question: If contemplative prayer and meditation produce identical effects, are they really so different? Could it be that contemplative prayer isn’t uniquely Christian at all?

Curious, I began looking into its origins. I learned that contemplative prayer has its roots in the practices of the Desert Fathers of 3rd-century Egypt. While there’s no direct evidence linking their practices to Eastern meditation, cultural exchange via trade routes like the Silk Road makes it plausible that the ideas travelled. If contemplation is a universal human practice, rather than something unique to Christianity, its effects wouldn’t depend on theology. They’d simply be the natural outcome of the practice itself, regardless of the label we attach to it.

This line of questioning opened the door to deeper doubts. I already knew that some concepts in Christianity—like the idea of the “Logos” in John’s Gospel—were borrowed from Greek philosophy. But I’d always thought of these as minor adjustments. What I hadn’t realised was how extensively Hellenistic ideas shaped Christianity.

For example, the concept of the immortal soul, central to Christian theology, is essentially Platonic. Traditional Judaism didn’t have this view; instead, the soul and body were seen as inseparable, ceasing at death until a future physical resurrection. Christianity adopted a dualistic view of body and soul from Greek philosophy, which shifted its framework significantly.

The blending of Jewish and Greek ideas long predated Christianity. Philo of Alexandria, a first-century Jewish philosopher, had already integrated Platonic and Stoic ideas into his interpretation of Hebrew scripture for a Hellenistic audience. That same intellectual tradition flowed through early Christian thinkers such as Origen and the Cappadocian Fathers, whose synthesis of theology and Greek metaphysics helped shape what later became mainstream Christian doctrine.

This raised a serious question for me: If Christianity is a blend of Judaic and Hellenistic ideas, can it claim to be an authentic continuation of Jesus’ teachings? Or is it something else entirely?

This led me to explore the possibility of even broader influences. Some scholars argue that Greek thought itself was shaped by Eastern philosophies, particularly those of the Vedanta tradition in Hinduism. If that’s true, then Christianity’s intellectual roots might extend much further east than we usually consider.

I also came across the theory that Jesus could have encountered Buddhist teachings during his so-called “lost years”. While there’s no definitive evidence that he travelled to regions like India, the spread of Buddhism via trade routes brought these ideas much closer to Judea than I’d previously imagined. The parallels between Jesus’ teachings and Buddhist principles—like compassion, detachment and a focus on inner transformation—are striking.

Gradually, I came to see Christianity not as the one true path to God, but as one of many ways humanity has tried to articulate the divine. Religion, I now believe, is shaped more by culture and history than by absolute truth. And if there is a spiritual truth, it likely exists beyond the limits of any one theology.

There’s a saying I’ve come to appreciate: “If you need words and doctrines to define the truth, then you’re probably not describing truth at all”. That, for me, captures the heart of why I moved on from Christianity. Language and theology create frameworks, but the divine is too vast to fit into them.

Even Jesus seemed to understand this. His teachings were practical, focused on moral living and direct connection with God, rather than rigid systems of belief. Yet, as Christianity developed, it became a Religion (with a capital “R”), full of doctrines, creeds and institutional structures.

People seem to have a natural tendency to organise themselves into groups and express spirituality collectively. That’s fine for those who find meaning in it, but for me, faith has become something more personal—an individual search for the divine that doesn’t rely on one tradition.

I haven’t rejected God. If anything, I feel a stronger connection now than I ever did as a Christian. I’ve simply let go of the need to define or confine that connection within a particular framework. The divine, I believe, is beyond labels, beyond systems and present everywhere.