When someone says those four words—I am a man—what does it mean? You’ll probably agree with Scott Heydt…more than once.
—
I Am A Man
..
I can’t change a tire.
I don’t drive stick.
The difference between 6 and 8 cylinders?
Sorry.
I call AAA when my battery needs a jump.
I have no opinion on the Ford vs. Chevy debate.
Driveshaft only has relevance from past episodes of Lost.
I own a Pontiac Vibe
with a stuffed Koala on the dashboard.
I am a man.
I read in the bathroom,
although my IPad is an acceptable alternative.
I’ll text inappropriate messages to my best friends,
during the work day.
I am a man.
Baseball bores me.
Never once have I considered equating the word fantasy with football.
I don’t own golf clubs.
You’ll not find cars driving in circles on my television.
I last watched Sports Center in high school.
My money was never spent on pay-per-view boxing.
I’m more interested in why
wrestlers grapple in squares called rings
and ultimate fighters in octagons
than in actually watching either sport.
I am a man.
I was a Division 3,
three-sport athlete.
You can find me in the weight room.
Often.
I run marathons.
My idea of fun involves crawling through mud pits, climbing walls, and wading into frigid water.
I drag tires
connected to ropes
through my development.
I own multiple orange headbands.
I am a man.
I am a teacher.
My silly song and dance repertoire is vast.
I know “what the fox say.”
I hug my students.
Because they need it.
Because I need it.
Daily, I speak high-pitched gibberish to my greyhound.
My adopted sheep’s name is Olive Ewe.
A sandpaper-like lick from my cat
is among my daily highlights.
When I see those creepy, thousand legged insects
scampering up my wall,
I get a magazine.
so I can release it outside.
I am a man.
I appreciate a good porter or ale.
Burbon?
On the rocks please.
I drink my coffee black.
The darker the roast, the better.
I am a man.
I am a vegetarian.
I bring reusable bags to the grocery store.
Quinoa—I can spell it, and I eat it.
Fried food makes me queasy.
I pick up litter.
Pictures of sea turtles caught in plastic bags saddens me.
A bowl of ice cream makes me giddy.
I am a man.
I listen to rap music.
Metallica and Rage Against the Machine
get me pumped.
I binge watched Breaking Bad over Christmas.
Two words:
Walking Dead.
I am a man.
I read
every day.
I write poetry
just for fun.
I much prefer the airline magazine crossword puzzle
to the Skymall catalogue.
The last video game system I owned was the original Nintendo.
I’ve never played Call of Duty or Halo.
One TV is enough for my home.
My IPod contains a song by Miley Cyrus,
Demi Lovato,
and the Jonas Brothers.
I am a man.
I run my own company.
A attend board meetings.
I wear pin-striped suits.
I watch the evening news.
I am a fraternity member.
I wear my fraternity letters.
I am a man.
I bite my nails.
Large crowds make me nervous.
After every shower, I study my naked profile in the mirror.
I suffer from bouts of deep depression.
I have seen several psychologists.
I’m on anti-anxiety, anti-depressant medication.
I am imperfect.
I screw up.
I apologize when I mean it.
I am a man.
I fart in bed.
Al Bundy taught me,
one hand in the waistband
is comforting.
I strip to my boxers
when I arrive home
after a long day’s work.
I am a man.
Every tool in my house
belongs to my wife.
In high school wood shop,
I completed a power tool price analysis
in lieu of building something.
Send me to Home Depot with a shopping list,
and I’ll find the closest customer service representative.
Painting my downstairs bathroom felt like
Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
I am a man.
I like women.
I enjoy intercepting a Victoria Secret catalogue
placed in my mailbox.
My attention while strolling the Boardwalk
is not always fixed on the ocean.
I’ve played “Who’d You Rather?”
I am a man.
I am married.
I tell my wife I love her every morning before work
and every evening before bed.
I shed tears by her side
when the doctors told us Baby Evan
had no heartbeat.
I wept as I held my wife’s hand
while we learned Baby Gabriel
would not survive the pregnancy.
I sobbed uncontrollably
as my wife lay sedated,
just minutes prior having held Baby Eli
for the one and only time,
purple and disfigured,
unfit for this world.
I am a man.
I am two people.
One moment, the stereotypical man.
The next, the atypical man.
But wait!
I’m confused.
What, exactly, is typical?
And who,
other than me,
can truly say definitively
I am a man?
—Photo CarbonNYC/Flickr
Scott Heydt’sTwitter: @RefinEDChar
Great work Scott…..I just came upon this website thanks to the really beautiful video of the birds over the lake. This piece however meant a lot to me as I read and agreed and thought I was hit with a bit of a haymaker at the end as my wife and I had just lost my first son mid-pregnancy….
Thank you…..it helped
I can relate to much of what you wrote. Being a man is what it means to each of us. We define it for ourselves individually. No one else really.
Nice work, Scott. This is the same message i’ve been trying to get across to friends and family for quite awhile. But man this is hard, too hard in a lot of way sometimes. The old ideas are just so ingrained. Try discussing this with strangers and you get to the point of rather than do that you’d feel better putting nails in your head. My wife knows me and knows i’m not this culture’s typical. But loves me anyway. My sister in laws know me but not as well and both aspire to typical men ideal in their viewpoint,… Read more »