Nobody Can Tell Us How to be Men

Especially not me

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The first porno mag I saw remains a memory of significance. It was about as instructive as the time I socked an older kid in the mouth to make him stop bullying me.

Both are more like faded tableaus, mostly carried by the stories I keep about them. Neither was as impactful as the conversations I never had with older men. It’s not that my life was absent of men; there were just none I wanted to listen to, not as a teenager.

Sure. There was my Uncle Jack, but if you’ve read any of my previous essays—like this one or this one—you’ll know my Uncle Jack and I had a sordid relationship.

There was also my older brother, Dan. He was seven years my senior, an awkward spread for being my buddy or my mentor. I love my brother and hold nothing against him. If I were him, I would’ve beaten that version of me into a pulp, on the regular. I was a hyperactive monster and manipulator.

Not long ago, Dan tried to apologize for abandoning me during my teen years, but I never felt like he owed me anything. He was a young man with designs on getting out there.

Finding men of influence has always been a case-by-case consideration for me. I usually got it wrong too, like looking for a mentor in the man who owned the small garage where I worked. Don’t get me wrong. Tom was a good man, but not the right fit. The list is long, though: Men I tried to make into Daddy.

Without a father figure, my ascent into manhood reads like an episode of Police Squad, one where I’m Frank Drebin stumbling into manhood by accidental fortune. No older man counseled me to take up an exercise practice. No mentor taught me to meditate. These things just sorta happened for me.

On the other side of the matter, I could’ve spent time in jail for various reasons.

All of this makes me wonder if we’re wise to hope for older men to be the guides boys need. Sometimes I find a story can shed some light on my thoughts.

Sexual Deviancy

“Do you wanna see why I spend so much time in the bathroom?” Dan asked me once he was sure our parents had pulled out of the driveway.

I must’ve been about eight. “Sure,” I shrugged.

That was the day I learned that there were magazines full of naked adult women. Up until then, I’d only ever seen my Mother and a handful of rando adult women naked, mostly at an age too young to really care.

That day, however? I noticed. A very particular part of me stood at full attention through my shorts. My brother laughed and pointed.

Brothers. Nothing beats the comedy found in a fart to the face or a boner at the wrong time. I got a lot of both growing up, especially after finding Dad’s porno mags. I mean the boners, of course. Farts were my brother’s domain.

When Mom and Dad split up around age 12, Dad took most of those magazines with him. This would leave a huge gap in my porn experience for about six years.

Then they invented the internet.

In the years since, I’ve aged out of most sexual obsession, but I still carry a somewhat unhealthy relationship with it. There’s a part of me that still sees women as objects and goals. I try to be understanding of that confused and hard-working, eight-year-old part of the Damon experience.

That part has no wisdom to interpret. It’s due to the presence of other parts, like the various critical ones and the more evolved ones, that I have any epistemology at all. Those other parts keep the eight-year-old part in check.

Had there been a man in my life at that age with the wisdom to help me interpret what I was feeling, perhaps this adult me would be less burdened.

I can only imagine the conversation, but it would go something like this:

Son, everything you're feeling is normal. Unfortunately, you’re a little young to confront these feelings. You’ve stumbled into adult matters. You’ve not done anything wrong. I have. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry. Your brain and body need time to develop. This is hard to understand, I know. Understand this, though. We can talk about this whenever you want to. I’m your Dad, and that’s my job.

Fighting

My main bully was Kit Riter, but he wasn’t the first or last.

One of the more impactful bullies was a kid I never really knew. I must have been seven or eight, and in summer school. This older boy was in the bus seat in front of me, teasing me over the seat.

When I’d had enough, I hauled off on his nose with my fist. He immediately started crying and sat back down. Exiting the bus at my stop, I skipped home that day.

That pride was dashed when Mother’s response was disappointment.

“We raised you better than this,” she said, her eyes concerned.

Dad was also disappointed. I don’t think he was even secretly proud of me. I’d fucked up, and I knew better.

Fighting is beneath me, even if the kid is older and he had it coming.

Karate classes were a big deal in the 80s, but I wasn’t allowed. Instead, I took theater and dance lessons. Violence was not on the menu in our house. Honestly, I don’t know how interested I would’ve been anyway. I was scared of getting hit.

Dan had his share of scuffles growing up. I worked hard not to be a bad boy, and it didn’t come easy. I had problems enough with my persistent case of antsy pants. Fighting seemed an easy infraction to avoid, and even easier points to score with my parents.

“At least he doesn’t fight with other boys,” I could imagine them saying, looking back.

If I had a boy, I‘d let him take at least one karate class. I wouldn’t insist, but I would let him if he wanted to, but there’d be conditions. The first fight he ever initiated would be the end of it.

This is what I imagine I would say to him, and often:

Son, fighting is what happens when communication fails. Mastering how to listen with curiosity and compassion, and how to speak with clarity, matters at least as much as your fighting skills. Fighting comes second, but only when you’ve really tried everything else, including walking away. There may come a time when you have no other option. The fight ends once you’ve gained control.

Dads

In my work, I have the honor of working with many dads. I couldn’t do what they do. They sacrifice like I’ve never had to. Oh, sure. I would have likely stepped up, but it’s hard to see it from where I stand.

One thing I am clear on. I feel like I have no standing to criticize, not those dads, and not my own father. I feel like I have zero right to tell any man how to be a man. I have ideas and stories about what I think I know, but it feels like I have no authority.

Like the men I work with, we’re confronting the unknown and un-faced parts of ourselves. They’re the eight-year-old boys we once were, the ones who had to face adult situations with a child’s wisdom. The farther back we go, the harder that ask.

Why are we confused about this? Our Dads’ Dads were not more in touch with their vulnerable parts.

This being true, who among us could be the authority on men?

Thanks for being here.

~Damon