When I was a kid, I was a crier. Whenever I lost a game, or made a mistake, my face would redden and the tears would come. My parents, who were never very comfortable with strong feelings, took to teasing me whenever this happened. Boys don’t cry, they said. You’re acting like a girl.
I know they meant well. They wanted me to master my emotions, just as they had. And I did — kind of. I was still quick to flood with emotion, but I learned to squelch the tears. As an adult, I didn’t cry again until my mid forties, when my marriage fell apart, and then I couldn’t stop for weeks. Since then, I cry a little occasionally, but it’s not easy. It’s a skill I unlearned really well.
The poet and essayist Ross Gay has written several books about finding and capturing joy and delight in our everyday lives. But long before he was a sensitive, thoughtful writer, he was a competitive athlete. He grew up playing football and basketball all through school, and went on to play in college. Recently, I heard him talk about something that happened to him in high school.
He recounted being on the receiving end of a football coach’s angry tirade. Unsurprisingly, it was laced with insults that questioned his masculinity, meant to shame and humiliate him. They did the job — those words etched themselves into his memory.
Years later, he told this story to his wife, and reflected that the worst part about it was that he couldn’t get any support, because he couldn’t tell anyone what happened.
Why not, she asked. Because if he had, he would have cried. And what would have happened if he had cried? Then he would have had to kill everything and everyone around him who had witnessed it.
I believe him — not that he would have done it, but that he would have felt as if he had to. I believe him because everyday there are boys and men who feel that same rage and shame, and then do the unspeakable. Just pick up the newspaper — it’s plastered all over the front page.
Margaret Atwood once wrote that, “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” What we often forget is that the two fears are connected. By indoctrinating boys into a version of masculinity that defines vulnerability as weakness, we do them a double disservice. First we force them into a state of wounded shame. Then we leave them no outlet for that shame other than dominance and aggression.
There’s only one way out of this mess. We have to redefine masculinity in a way that includes, and even celebrates, vulnerability. By vulnerability, I mean the courage to admit and accept our flaws, and to ask for help. We have to teach our boys that this is not weakness — it’s strength.
There’s plenty of data to back that up. People who are willing and able to show vulnerability are much more likely to make intimate connections. They make better, more respected leaders. They report higher levels of happiness, health, and financial success. If you want to see your kids have fulfilling lives, one of the biggest gifts you can give them is a comfort with vulnerability.
Of course, all of this is much easier said than done. Right now, we are seeing a convulsive backlash against the redefinition of gender roles, and it’s playing out publicly on a national scale. All around us, men in prominent positions are proffering a version of manhood based on unchecked dominance and aggression.
Right after the election, the white supremacist Nick Fuentes gleefully tweeted the message: “Your body. My choice. Forever.” In the following days, it was reposted 35,000 times, and viewed by more than 90 million people. Since then, there have been reports of boys chanting the slogan at girls in the halls of their schools.
It’s easy to dismiss them as stupid kids who don’t know any better. Oh well, boys will be boys. But sometimes, with the right mix of goading, shame, and tacit approval, boys become the Hitler Youth, or the Khmer Rouge.
It’s horrifying, but we can’t afford for it to be debilitating. If anything, we need to stiffen our spines and redouble our efforts. We need to create as many spaces as possible where our boys feel safe to be flawed, uncertain, emotional human beings. We need to look out for our own casual, inadvertent messages about masculine strength and weakness. We need to be better.
Sometimes resistance looks like people marching in the streets. But this time, it also looks like a boy being gently comforted when he’s crying, hurt, or afraid.
Let’s do this. Let the resistance begin.
Read more:
Dad Next Door: The Monster in the Basement
Dad Next Door: Artificial Unintelligence
