Cal Calamia

We find him high above Sydney, on a rooftop the sun has claimed as its own. The Harbour Bridge arches over the water like the spine of some great sleeping creature, the bay glittering beneath it as if the sea itself is applauding, and even the wind has slowed to a saunter, leaning in to listen. Beside him sits Carter Howe, director, photographer, “resident transgender”, and the friend who has loved him across five countries and countless dance floors. Their coffee cools slowly in the heat. Their laughter does not.

But the story begins in Madrid, where Carter photographed Cal beneath a Castilian light that had watched over him once before: a student with freshly shorn hair, hearing the ending of a word bend from chica to chico, and feeling a whole life realign in the space of a single vowel. To return and stand before a lens held by someone who already sees him whole is a circle closed with the softest of pencils. And so the conversation ends in Sydney, where Carter's own story once paused behind a door still locked. Two cities. Two former selves. Two people who walked back into the rooms of their old sadness and found the lights left on.

Cal is, by their own admission, undefinable. Athlete, poet, former teacher, avid crowd surfer, friend of many. Running was the first freedom he was ever granted, a route around a conservative Midwestern neighbourhood and headphones loud enough to drown out the dinner table, and somewhere along those roads a boy who was told he could not exist began, quietly, to exist. He speaks now of a masculinity made of gentleness and patience, of nails painted and legs crossed, of a liminal space he inhabits not as a compromise but as a home. What follows is Boys by Girls with the gaze flipped, then flipped again, until all that is left is two friends, a rooftop, and the truth.

Over to Carter.

This is my friend Cal Calamia. My name is Carter Howe, and we are in Sydney, Australia, for the Sydney Marathon. We're on a rooftop looking at the Harbour Bridge. We just got coffee; it's 80 degrees out. This is a bit of an international interview, because we were in Madrid when we did the photos. We're a little bit addicted to being out of the house. I'm a director and photographer, and resident transgender, based in New York. And Cal?
I'm kind of undefinable. I will say I am a trans athlete, but also a writer, creative person, and community voice. Friend of many. I live in San Francisco, California. I just raced the non-binary division of my seventh World Marathon Major, so now we're just hanging out and doing other stuff.

So, how did we first meet? Cal and I found each other on Instagram.gov, because in the throes of the pandemic there was a massive wave of trans mascs not only realising they were trans but finding each other online. Then we met in real life in 2023 in New York, when he was there for the marathon. We went to a coffee shop in Fort Greene, and I was truly in the throes of a Rainbow Kitten Surprise era, and the whole playlist in the café was Rainbow Kitten Surprise.
I remember we were tucked away in that little back corner. I was shocked because you told me you came out as trans without ever having come out as a different sexuality. You see people online and feel connected in some way. But when you're actually together for the first time, it feels like you know each other, and then you realise you don't at all.

It was a knockout. Interactions in New York are rarely instantly comfortable without some weird hidden agenda. A month later I went to visit him in San Francisco, and it felt like family.
Our relationship is also very creative. So my question to you is: what is the best part of photographing another trans person, and what do you see in me through the camera that someone who doesn't know me might miss?

There's zero stress. I get a lot of anxiety from my job, but when I'm with other trans mascs, I just don't feel any hurry. Maybe I should. What do I see? Swag. There's such a language of masculinity within trans masculine people. It’s masculinity that isn't coming from a cis man. We've had so many conversations about self-image and how we feel in the world, so I know what he's feeling at any moment, and it's easy to know when to keep going, stop, or move somewhere else. Shooting this in Madrid was incredible.
We should talk about that, because I have a rich history with Madrid. I studied abroad there during my last semester at Saint Louis University. I had just cut all my hair off, and it was one of the first times I was not being recognised as a girl. Spanish is a gendered language. It’s “chico” versus “chica”, and people were speaking about me with masculine language. I felt so affirmed. So much of how we understand ourselves is how people understand us. To be back in Madrid, where I'd had some of those really early realisations, but with you, being photographed and seen as who I really am, was a big full-circle moment.

I didn't know that context. And now we're here, where I studied abroad, and I wasn't in a space where I was able to transition at that time. Now we're both in those places as fully realised folks. Trans people don’t often get to have that continuity. Relationships, whether it’s family or college friends, aren’t always sustained over time, often as a result of your transness. So to have that connection between us in places where we used to be different versions of ourselves is really healing.

It’s so cool to go back to a place where you were sad and not be sad anymore. Does being documented by someone who knows you well change the way you feel in front of the camera?
100%. As a trans person, my story and identity are always being portrayed by people who don't understand me, or might deliberately try to misunderstand me to push a narrative I don't want to be a part of. So I can be on edge. We've talked so much about the code-switching between different crowds to move through space with a complicated identity. You see me, so I don't have to worry about making sure you see certain parts of me or hiding other ones. I know your heart and intentions are in the right place. I'm safe.

And I love that we're doing this with Boys by Girls, because the whole theme is men being photographed by women, and it's the same, even if we aren't exactly girls. It's flipping the male gaze.
It’s subverting it entirely. One of my favourite things about being trans is that our existence says “you guys are kind of wrong about gender.” Bringing both of us together doubles that impact.

We live extremely nuanced lives. There's never anything super defined, other than knowing we're not women. That's the only thing set in stone, and it makes room for a lot more creativity, joy, whimsy, and spontaneity. Period. Out of all the places we've gone in the world together, where has there been the best music and parties?
It's so hard to take these things out of context; we also have to consider where we were energetically. We saw Bad Bunny in Madrid, but I will never forget that bar in Tokyo where we found one of our favourite songs. It was a sleeper hit. We stumbled upon a queer neighbourhood, walked into this gay bar, and suddenly, we were having a dance party with a bunch of tourists and locals. That universal language of music has underpinned a lot of our travel. Music is the best part about finishing a marathon. It's time to celebrate, not just the race, but the fact that we are trans people standing in our full identities and spreading love.

Quick shout-outs. Honey's in LA. Dalston Superstore in London. Palms On Oxford in Sydney, which was so random. Mood Ring and Purgatory in New York. We party, we dance. But Tokyo was the most special.
It felt so far away from anywhere else I've ever travelled.

How has your idea of masculinity changed as you've grown into yourself?
At first, when you realise you're trans, you can fixate on swinging really hard in the other direction, toward a manhood that's undeniable, as a way to protect yourself from being misunderstood. Then as I transitioned and was recognised as a man in pretty much every corner of my life, I felt the freedom to explore more femininity and pull back on the masculinity. I live in a more non-binary space than complete manhood. I know some trans men who are like, “I am a man, end of story.” I don't feel that way because I lived so much of my life as a girl and a young woman. I'm proud of that. I look at cis men, and I'm like, “Respectfully, I'm not like you.” I have a much more complex history with gender that I'm not willing to erase.

My objective with my transition is not to be as much like a cis man as possible. It's to occupy a liminal space that actually works for me and feels true. My nails are painted right now; I'm sitting with my legs crossed in a feminine way. The new masculinity we should all be practising, trans men and cis men alike, involves gentleness, patience, softness, love, and self-reflection. These attributes aren't historically associated with masculinity, but should be.

You can still do the traditional stuff, like having courage and strength. Lift the heavy thing. But courage can look like a lot of different things. I feel the same on the non-binary topic. I started taking hormones because it made my brain and body feel really, really good and aligned. Never once was I hoping to appear cis. I never want to be cis. I'm a non-binary person who takes a medication that makes me appear a certain way.
And that's as valid as any other gender non-conforming person. That realisation saved my life. Early in transition, you're comparing yourself to cis men. There's a lot of grief about the boyhood you didn't get to have. But when you realise it's better to live in the fullness of your truth, you're set free from that comparison, and it's a lot easier to be proud of your transness. It's pretty lit.

What does trans joy look like for you?
I was thinking about this when you brought up us dancing in the club in Tokyo. Trans joy is any moment in which transness itself, and having to fight for it, dissolves from the equation, without feeling like something is being hidden or sacrificed. Often that comes from being in community with other trans people, or allies who really see you. The ultimate goal of most trans people is to have the freedom to exist fully without having to fight so damn hard.

So let's talk about running. What did running give you when you first found it, and what does it give you now?
I think it's the same. I grew up in a super conservative Midwestern household where I was constantly hearing little jabs about all kinds of people who were different. I would excuse myself and go for a run. That gave me the autonomy to dodge ideas I didn't believe in and form my own sense of self. Running was the first thing I was really allowed to do on my own, at twelve, with my music. I was reprimanded all the time for wearing headphones around the house, but I was blocking things out. It was about freedom to be myself, and it still plays that role.

It's like getting your first car, except you're way younger, and you have Fall Out Boy turned up to fifty in your ears.
Kelly Clarkson, Mayday Parade, All Time Low, Green Day, The 1975. I remember my middle school cross-country self as my most quintessential self. It was the most unpainted by gender expectations. We looked at a picture this morning, and you were like, “You just look like a boy.” That’s correct. I was myself until I couldn't be, and then I had to come back. Now, the only difference is that I use running as a vehicle to spread a message. It doesn't take the joy out of the sport, but it makes it more complex. It teaches me that by being who you are and doing what you love, you can make the change you want to see, though it can be exhausting.

When you're running, what's happening in your head?
People ask this a lot. If I asked you what you think about when you walk, you'd be like, “What?” It's a combination of being present to what's happening around me and being in my head about whatever I'm in my head about anyway. On longer trail runs, I work through big issues because I have hours in the mountains. I think, “Who am I as a person? What are my ultimate goals?” In a race, a lot of it is about being really, really kind to myself, which surprises people. My number one objective with my internal monologue when I'm competing is to stay on my own team. I'm basically talking to myself like, “You're doing so amazing, sweetie.”

What has running taught you about yourself that has nothing to do with being an athlete?
I genuinely believe I can do anything, and maybe that's a little delusional. If I concentrate my energy on a goal, I believe I can put in the work to get there. It's taught me endurance; hard things end. I have a 100-mile race in October. I've never done that before, but I want to see if I can. And if I can, what possibilities open up for other trans people who aren't sure what they can accomplish?

It's also important to note that Cal has platformed in the non-binary division at each of his seven majors. So, swag. You've had to fight for your ability to compete as yourself. How do you stop that fight from overshadowing the thing you love? Do you ever wish you could simply be an athlete without your identity becoming part of the conversation? I think your answer would be “No.” You're totally right. I actually feel a lot of pleasure from doing what people tell me I cannot do. If someone tells me I don't belong somewhere, that has implications much larger than myself. By doing it anyway, I'm showing anyone watching that they can do that too. If I can give another person the opportunity to recognise who they are earlier than I did, that's enough motivation for me. And there is a world where I transition, say “I am a man”, run in the men's division, and never talk about it again. That world exists. Fuck that world. I don't subscribe to the idea that trans people need to disappear into cisness to navigate the world.

But on the flip side, I want it to be possible to just be an athlete. That’s the world I am trying to create for other people. When you realise you're trans, transness becomes so central. You're googling everything and going to doctor's appointments. Once that smooths out, there's room to turn back toward other things that make you who you are. Yeah, I'm trans. Yeah, I love running. But I'm also very into music, art, literature, fashion, travel, and friendship. I'm an avid crowd surfer. I do wonder which of those things would come to the forefront if I didn't have to be in such an active battle just to show up and do the thing.

Given the expansiveness of being trans, you literally can't be close-minded. What would you say to a young trans person, or a young queer person, who loves sport but doesn't see a place for themselves in it?
We all must zoom out and remember that the fight to be who you are and live a full life is very intergenerational. Generations of people have come before us, we're in it right now, and we're going to keep being in it. So lean on that hope when things feel impossible. Unfortunately, it keeps wearing new masks; who are we going to ostracise now? But I want young queer and trans people to know we're doing the work. We're going to stake our flag here and keep advocating for the space to be who we are.

Who is your style icon now, and who was it when you were a kid? You're baiting me with this question.
My number one style icon in every single way: Justin Bieber. I love him so much. I always have. When he put out his first single on YouTube, I went around my neighbourhood in small-town Illinois putting up posters of him, because there was a street-team competition for free tickets. I didn't get the tickets. I will meet him before I die. A lot of it is an aura thing. We really grew up together. As a young trans person without the words for it, I was living those ages vicariously through him. I really thought about how unfair it was that I didn't get to be a boy, and here was this really cute sweetie pie getting to live that life. I see myself in the masculinity he represents. It's not buff, macho, stoic and cold. There's softness, sweetness, humour and lightness. I see that as an attainable and desirable masculinity, and having a model of it has been really helpful throughout my transition.

I just saw his Coachella performance. He's been through so much, and artistically he's evolved in a really meaningful way. It was so authentic — him just sitting there and talking like everyone was in his bedroom. We have hyper-abundant access to produce extravagant, even perfect things now, with AI. But you can’t create nostalgia, human authenticity, and the ability to connect with other people in a real way. I love the return to the simple and organic.

Something similar to the trans experience is his life having been ridiculed, judged, feminised, masculinised and sexualised from every angle. He held onto his truth and his craft despite being pulled at from all angles. How has your relationship with clothing changed over time?
Clothing was one of the first things I moved toward to explore my gender, and I was so scared. I remember being so scared in high school to shop in the men's section. I was already thinking of excuses if someone asked what I was doing there. I would say I was shopping for my brother. As I've become more confident, I've developed the intuition to follow what makes me feel like me, and the confidence to wear something I haven't seen other people wear. I love pieces no one else has. Fashion and transness really converse with each other, and by setting ourselves apart from cis men, we can explore more readily than people who are more confined by their gender roles.

There's total freedom. There are no rules. Who is a person, artist or figure, known or not, who you're super excited about right now?
I have found, for the first time in my life, a musical sound I've never experienced any other way, and that's Nourished by Time. I am eating his music up. The first song I found was “Hell of a Ride”, and now I'm addicted to “When the War Is Over”. The link between music and poetry is so inspiring. I'm a big words person, and exploring what happens in the space where words and sounds collide reignites my own writing when I feel stuck. Period.

This brings us perfectly to your poetry. What can you say through poetry that you can't say through running?
For a long time, I really struggled with how to write about running, because they feel so at odds. Running can feel quite quantifiable: here's my pace, here are the miles. Poetry is depth and nuance: here's the thing I noticed, here's a metaphor for how I'm feeling. Both have a vulnerability: the physical vulnerability of racing a marathon, and the emotional vulnerability of really expressing yourself. Running can feel so fast. Poetry is a practice of noticing and being present. Through athletics, I'm telling a story about excellence and how good I can be at something. Through poetry, I'm telling a story of vulnerability and truth. Both provide an opportunity to create universality, so people empathise with you. I try to create windows and doors, so that through my authenticity, other people can see their way in, and break down those barriers of difference that are so often constructed around trans people.

Do you write to understand what you're feeling, or do you need to understand it before you can write about it? I'm constantly trying to figure that out, because sometimes if I put something down in writing, it becomes too concrete. I love living my life in a really nuanced way that's open to change, and if I write about something I'm feeling deeply, it's going to become more true. So I switched from pen and paper to voice memos. My fear with writing is recording things that may not be totally true.
For me, it happens on both ends. I write a lot of things I don't understand yet. I write when I feel off-kilter so I can come back into alignment. That fear you named about solidifying a truth by writing it down is what I go toward when I need to solidify a truth, because I'm disoriented. On the other side, when I have solid ideas I want to share, I'm writing from a place of already understanding. Both are important. Whether it's voice memos or captions, we are all writers, and we've had extensive conversations about the importance of documenting transness. It's that for me too. Documentation.

What does looking after yourself actually look like when nobody's around? You set really high expectations for yourself, and when you say you’re not touching your phone for the rest of the day, I can do that too. Anything in excess will never make you a balanced person.
It's taken a long time to develop that slower muscle. I taught public high school for five years, and I was “go, go, go” all the time. Now I've learned the value of feeling aligned with myself through writing, movement, meditation, nature, music, and turning off the outside world’s noise. When I take really good care of myself, I show up way better in my relationships and as a community member. I'm really motivated by connection. Taking care of myself means not pressuring myself to accomplish anything tangible. Maybe the accomplishment is literally going for a walk without my phone, or lying down. Checking things off the to-do list needs to be paused sometimes.

What's exciting to you right now that has nothing to do with running?
Music is making me so happy. I tore my meniscus, and when I thought it meant I couldn't run, I was like, “What do I want to pursue?” I want to learn how to DJ. It's so random, but I love that feeling we talked about in Tokyo — everyone united through the universal language of music in one space. I love curating a vibe. Shout-out to an album I've been obsessed with: You Can't Kill Me by 070 Shake. Something about the darkness and lightness takes me to the next level.

Music has been a timestamp for us. There are songs that [feel like] New York 2023. Some feel like a breakup or falling in love. What are you trying to make more space for in your life?
Total pivot: mountains, straight up. I've fallen totally in love with trail running and being off the grid, in nature. Climbing a mountain, running up the mountain, lying out on the mountain underneath the stars. Being in the natural world is so human, healing, and necessary. I want to make sure I keep prioritising it.

The opposite of the flatland. If the younger version of Cal could see Cal's life now, what do you think he'd be most proud of?
The character trait I've resonated with most in my life is the ability to empathise with other people, to understand the entire context of people's lives and how it impacts our connection. I love people so much. I can connect with myself and others, and connect others with themselves. It’s coalition building — building teams of people with whom to change the world.