On masculinity
Several months back, I read an excellent piece, originally published in The Hedgehog Review, titled “What Is It Like to Be a Man?”. In it Phil Christman, a writing teacher at U. of Michigan, relates his feelings of dissonance related to being a 21st century man.
I found the piece moving and deeply relatable, almost as though it might have been written by an alternate version of myself. In it, he shares the challenge of juxtaposing reasonable criticisms of how men are able to walk through the world—by way of social privilege—against all the ways he at once agrees with these assessments without necessarily feeling them.
Examples of this challenge include agreeing with the assessment that men don’t have to care about how they look, which the author must agree with at the same time that he is frustrated with the claim because he is “literally never not sore from the gym, because [he is] so concerned with looking a certain way.” In another instance, he recalls a conversation with a female colleague:
“As a man, you never think about how much space you take up.” I nod, because I agree with the point she intends to make, but the wording of the statement is so literally false—I have fretted about the physical space I occupy for most of my clumsy, in-the-way, yo-yo dieting life—that I am still thinking about this trivial exchange hours later.
Both of these examples resonate with me deeply. I experience body dysmorphia to some degree, though it waxes and wanes. I often describe my childhood physique with a mixture of shame and humor as “toothpick with a tire around the middle.” At 34, I weight exactly what I did at 16, though the composition has changed over time. During most of the intervening 18 years, I came to my current physique not through activities I wanted to perform but rather by way of hating my body for being too skinny (read: not muscular enough), then loathing the non-existent weight I gained. (So as to not be a total downer, I very much love cycling; exercise isn’t pure torture.) I found that I was uncomfortable sharing these thoughts with anyone other than my gay male friends who seemed to possess a similar bodily shame, if not a useless fear of loss of masculinity for relating said fears to other men.
These days, I feel very at home in my body. It’s a tenuous feeling, and so I appreciate it all the more when it’s here. As a cis man who strongly identifies as being male, I’ve found a way to fold in poor body image and self-criticism in the same way I learned to cry as an adult. In childhood, I learned by example that men do not cry. Nor do they complain. Nor do they show much of any emotion, save anger or frustration. They certainly aren’t depressed. I hope you see this for the damaging—excuse me for the language—bullshit that it is. Men cry, are possessed of emotion, and become depressed. Complaining is fine in moderation, as with most things, but maybe give your loved one’s a break, right? I now relish in a good cry, and know well the experience of crying for many different reasons. Crying comes from happiness and sadness, nostalgia and loss. And for me, it often comes from depictions of strong father-son relationships.
Defining masculinity is something of a fraught proposition. I don’t think it should be so. I think those who are most willing to define the term hold to a traditional view of masculinity to which they can hardly stand up, a view which is damaging, restricting, and cruel. Part of the reason for this, I believe, is the thin valence of male relationships.
Violence is the first, and primary, mechanism which most men learn to use to interact with other men. Aggressive handshakes, slugs, and nut taps has been the vocabulary of so much male interaction. Whereas today women are the beneficiaries of decades of open conversation about the breadth of femininity, conversations between men addressing how to navigate the world without violence, default privilege, and fear have been sorely lacking. Too often, men seem to seek to define what it is to be a man in reaction to the perception of something lost rather than with an eye to something which might be gained.
I remember vividly the first time I hugged one of my dearest male friends. We had at that point been very close for ten years, during which I had always been careful to respect his discomfort at being touched. Instead, our physical intimacy played within the clear boundaries set by masculine expectation. That is to say, we fist bumped, arm slugged, or did not touch at all. Following an experience with psychedelics, during which I was spotting him from an adjacent room, he emerged to chat, tell me he loved me, and give me a hug. Even now as I recall it, I want to tear up as I did then. I’ll carry that moment with me all my life even as I hope the years make it into something so commonplace I might as easily forget.
Modern masculinity is something that can be turned to the positive, something which can be possessed and appreciated without the mental gymnastics that too often feel necessary today. Perhaps part of that is recognizing the relative paucity of so many male relationships today and refusing that norm. I think we need to take a leaf from our foremothers and build a comfort with and willingness to show whatever vulnerability stands in the way of the deep friendships we desperately need and certainly deserve. We have everything to gain and nothing of value to lose.
Trivial Pursuit
🌳♂︎ Most trees planted in urban areas are male. This means they produce pollen rather than edible produce. The ostensible reason is that it would be a pain to clean up after falling fruit and nuts and such. Unfortunately, this means that rather than being able reach up for a snack as you traverse the city instead we see a lot more hay fever. Talk about a lose-lose.
🤑🧠 A study published last year indicated that an influx of money makes people happier than psychotherapy. There are clear limits to the study, not least that it involved a pretty homogenous cohort (all rural Kenyans), but it does serve to point towards economic immiseration as one of the prime sources of the explosion of modern depression and anxiety.
🎁🔬 I’ve never been a fan of being asked what I want ahead of a gift-giving occasion. I admit sometimes it is rather important, for example to ensure you get what you need at a baby or wedding shower, but it alway feels impersonal. Well, the science is against me; apparently the best way to ensure people appreciate the gifts you give them is to ask them what they want and buy it. I’ll be over here grumbling like the old man I am at heart if anyone needs me.
😍💰 Stockholm Syndrome as defined is largely nonsense, and has a sexist origin just like *checks notes* says here “damn near everything else.” Huh…
🐶🌱 Based on an exceedingly small sample size, I can say with some certainty that 13 year old female corgis love eating sprouts. I can think of no other reason that my dog would have hoovered up every single one of my broccoli and cabbage sprouts last week.
A Whole Season
It’s been a mild winter in Maine. Until a few weeks ago, we didn’t see much snow and what we did see often melted before the next storm. We only started seeing single digits temps this week at about the same time the same hit Texas in force.
As a life long Texan, I never had a reason to miss seasons. This particular winter not withstanding, I never really knew them back home. Instead, I knew blistering heat, a bit of cool, a bunch of rain, and maybe two weeks of true comfort before the wheel turned again.
I’ve yet to live a year in New England, so I still can’t speak to the experience of living 4 whole seasons. One thing I’ve found in my time thus far is a deep calm at looking out on white land, be it from my desk or a walk in the woods punctuated by rattling trees as they shake down the occasional ice sheaths. In Texas, winter usually means trees nude of leaves and needles while the grass below thrives. I never realized how strange that was until now. It simply feels right that the ground would freeze under a white blanket while the trees bide their time until Spring, though ideally with proper planning and infrastructure in place.
The Small Things
One of the first trends I can remember attaching myself to as a kid was heavy metal. I say trend because that is what it was for me. A trend, a passing fad, no matter that for others it became a life long aesthetic and interest. I took to heavy metal in 6th grade because it was what my friends were in to, having grown up deeply immersed in that world while I was being exposed to the blues, gospel, and jazz.
For me, heavy metal was always and exclusively about transgression. No one in my family liked the music, the clothes, the manners of expression. It was a chance to safely buck expectations. While my new aesthetic drew endless criticism, even outright concern, from my family, it was never enough to totally ostracize me. Instead, it was just a way to assert myself as an individual.
Among the various cultural signifiers—dark clothes, shaggy hair, head banging—that defined the phase, painting my nails was the most scary, and thus the most thrilling. My friends already liked to paint theirs on occasion—always black, always poorly applied—so I felt safe at school despite some mean comments. For me, reactions at home were the most exciting. My maternal uncles and my father were my primary male role models, but I didn’t live with any of them. The uncles often balked at anything non-heteronormative—a unfamiliar term for us at the time, but I’ll keep the slurs to myself—and Dad did much the same, though always couched in religious objection. I painted my nails to stand out at home, and boy did it work.
I left behind that aesthetic as easily as I took it on. Heavy metal was never of genuine interest, nor were the various genre-cum-subcultures I took on subsequently. I probably painted my nails for only about 6 months and then never spoke of it again until a few years ago.
When I first painted my nails as an adult, it was again a matter of transgression. This time, however, it was about more how I felt than the reactions I garnered. The challenge is not to some external keeper of norms so much as to the norms I’ve digested over time. The challenge is something of a personal reminder that I am the arbiter of what makes me me. I don’t paint them often, but when I do I feel embodied in the same way as when I feel physically strong or strikingly dressed. The feeling is at once manly and unconcerned about gender.
I was recently at the store being ignored by the cashier and bagger when I noticed the latter had elaborately painted nails. A far cry from the terrible black nails I wore as an 11 year old, his we’re done up like watermelon slices. Though I know nothing about how he (they?) identifies, everything else about him read masculine, and it made me feel a bit of joy. He wore his excellently adorned nailed proudly, and that feels like something at once inspiring and unremarkable.
I’ll leave you this month with a TV recommendation. If you’d like to see one of the most impressive meditations on positive masculinity, inclusive of every trap and triumph that entails, check out Ted Lasso. It just so happens to also be the funniest show of 2020.
I'm writing this comment while I wait for my turn to get some blood work so bear with whatever... Three things:
1. I never experienced the lack of physical appreciation between male friends (or family) when I was growing up. I found unhealthy the fact that social norms around here (and not in all cases) took precedence before sentimental expression. I guess I'm fortunate.
2. For me it was nu metal and punk... And fuck yeah!
3. I also love those nails and the darker, the rader. Coz Tom Delonge...
Miss ya broh!