A
couple things making the rounds on social media have got me thinking quite a lot lately. The first is another of those ‘share something
about yourself’ games we see all the time on Facebook. In this case, people are
invited to post two images of themselves, their first profile picture on FB
alongside their most recent picture under the heading ‘How hard have you aged?’
The other thing is the important on-going discussion about toxic masculinity in
society—a discussion that may be painful to many, unwelcome to some, still long
overdue to others.
I
cheated a bit on the FB game, and posted a photo that had been taken when I was
twenty-seven, alongside a selfie I snapped around the time of my sixtieth
birthday this last August. I was fascinated by the stark contrasts of these two
images, yet even more captivated by their similarities; what of the boy is
still recognizable in the face of the man? It would be nice to believe that, at sixty, I
am the fine oak-barrel-aged and mellowed distillation of that callow twenty-seven-year old, still
outwardly recognizable as the same man, but inwardly—essentially I would hope—a
much better one. Life has chiseled and sculpted my features to reveal a story
that isn’t always pleasant to read. Yet, like a rock that has born the wear and
tear of time, steadfast against all stresses, punishments and pressures, so my
face with its scars and pits, its lines and wrinkles of laughter and of care is
a record not merely of what I have endured, but a testament to the spirit with
which I have endured.
And
what of all that lies within--the things one does not see? What the camera
cannot show is that this older fellow likes himself in a healthy way of
which the young one could hardly imagine. Generally contented in his life, the
older man is quietly comfortable in his own skin, and would not trade places
with his younger counterpart for anything, for to do so would be to deny what
he has worked so long and hard to become, the thing he was always meant to be,
nothing more or less than a simple, good man.
Regarding these two pictures taken some thirty-three years
apart, I am reminded of experience gained,
creative energies expended and renewed over decades, searing trauma and clinical
depression, stress and sorrow and anger—so much anger!—joy and laughter and all-consuming
lust, boundless rage and fathomless remorse. I think of how long it took me to
learn how to listen, the years of having to be almost completely alone in order
to cast off so many unhealthy habits and toxic attitudes, confronting my faults
in trials of brutally-honest self-examination.
My
twenty-something self clearly had a lot to learn, though I think even at that
age, I was eager to learn anything and everything I could. The problem was I
had yet to cultivate a habit of inquisitiveness—I was afraid to ask
questions. I
may have been self-assured to the point of megalomania, but I was also frightened
beyond the brink of panic by the prospect of starting a conversation. An
incoherent mass of noxious contradiction; aggressively arrogant, thoroughly convinced
of the utter rightness of my own ideas, yet, at the same time, pathologically
shy, socially awkward, uncertain, anxious, deeply afraid; loud, angry,
torturously inarticulate, carrying a sense of self-entitlement because I was
lonely and believed that companionship and sex were my rights as a man—all the
while spouting platitudes about “being a gentleman” and “respecting women.” The flame of my creative passions may have
burned bright, but it burned too often out of control, and, more often than
not, anyone who came too close.
They say there’s no fool like an old fool, yet, I wonder;
what is particularly foolish about an old fool? Is it because he insists on
believing, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, that the years have not
changed him—that he is still the handsome young blade he was in his youth, having
lost none of his juice? His magic mirror tells him precisely what he wants to
hear, after all. But, in the end, he is no more enlightened or mature than the
boy he imagines staring back at him. The old fool is incapable of giving up his
jejune delusions, but, then, he never had sufficient self-awareness to begin
with. Every old fool is a young fool who never grew up.
And
there are still a lot of young fools not growing up even in this day and age.
* * *
On
my father’s side at least, I seemed to have descended from a long line of
manic-depressive assholes, loud, overbearing good ol’ boys, straight, able,
white males who took their privilege in society for granted. I inherited
certain attitudes about the roles of men and women—attitudes which in many ways
had not changed over thousands of generations. Indeed,
when I was growing up there was still a broad societal consensus—seldom talked
about because it was assumed as a given—that women were naturally subordinate
to men, placed on this earth to be helpmates, servants, and providers of
pleasure on demand. While one should strive, I was told, to be a “gentleman”
and treat women with “respect,” there was some ambiguity regarding what such
respect entailed. I remember my father teasing me one time when I had gone for
a short walk with a young woman; “Why didn’t you make time with her?” he
demanded, and to this I had no reply, though I understood that this was his
not-so-subtle way of calling my manhood into question. By and large, the
signals I received growing up said that it was perfectly OK to be sexually
aggressive, to assert dominance, and never doubt one’s own prowess, so long as
one didn’t cause a scandal—whether one’s victims were psychologically battered,
traumatized or thoroughly creeped out, was mostly beside the point. Like the
ancient Romans, it was a true man’s destiny--if not his duty--to dominate at all times, and
penetrate whenever possible.
While
I never did anything so extreme, I must admit to behaving towards women in ways
of which I am now deeply ashamed. I have often thought in later years about
seeking out those I hurt in order to apologize, although I know that this would
probably only open wounds long scabbed over, memories best left unremembered
for sanity’s sake. I was a creep and a coward, and I have lived alone for
decades with regret for the things I did—things for which I have absolutely no
excuse whatsoever.
Not
being able to change the past, all I can do is try and effect the present for
good, living an honest, ethical life in accordance with virtue. So, I try to
ask myself every day; what does it mean to be a good man? What are the
characteristics of a healthy masculinity?
A
good man is thoughtful,
compassionate, dependable, caring, patient, ethical, open-minded, loving, sympathetic,
encouraging. A good man is able to listen and willing to learn. He can be
confident in himself but not overbearing or dogmatic. He may be independent and
take pride in his self-reliance, but he is also cooperative, and strong enough
to recognize when he needs help—with the courage to ask for it. A good man is a
builder, not a destroyer; he is passionate without being self-absorbed,
focused, yet always willing to consider the needs of others.
And that, my dear friends, is the man I aspire to be, the man I
hope one day to become.
