Dr. David J. Leonard gets real & personal on the masculinity balancing act that males face.
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Growing up, even into my teenage years, friends and family often described me as a “sweet boy.” Whether from my grandmother or from a girl in my class, the mantra, “Davey is kind and gentle” was as commonplace as any other “compliment.” I am a sensitive and caring soul so the description has always been appropriate.
Yet, for me, it didn’t always feel like a compliment. What I heard was, “Davey is really sweet and sensitive, unlike the REAL BOYS.” It was their way of saying that I was different, that I was unlike the other boys—those whom I looked up to, those whom I saw on television, and those whose footsteps I was encouraged to follow. While the many women in my life — from my mom and sister to my classmates and co-workers (and yes, I cannot recall men offering similar praise) — were surely noting a different inscription of masculinity, I heard something else. I didn’t feel as if the praise emanated from me offering a different sort of masculinity. At times it left me wondering if I was not as manly or masculine as the other boys.
I spent my summers teaching nursery school. I would rather take my sister to the movies than go hang out with friends. And making dinner for the family (sometimes even quiche) or baking was my favorite pastime. I was a “mama’s boy” and proud of it. However, as I got older my insecurity about my manhood became more and more pronounced. No amount of praise or encouragement counteracted the daily message about the proper ways to be a boy. I was in constant negotiation between the societal messages of how I was supposed to behave as a boy, and my passions, personality and preferences.
By high school, I began feeling as though I wasn’t equal to my male peers. I felt as if I was at a masculine deficit, at least when I looked at the social manhood scorecard:
Sexual Experience 0
Muscles and attractive physique 0
Toughness 0
Lacking a girlfriend, sexual experience, muscles, attractiveness, and toughness, coupled with my enjoyment of all things related to cooking, working with kids, and being sweet, prompted daily questions about my masculinity. Neither my Dad nor brother, much less my friends, were described with these attributes. I was different . . . the other. I didn’t “act like a boy.” And I didn’t do “boy things.” Instead, I was sensitive “like a girl.” And I cried “like a girl.” When I got into fights with my brother, I not only lost, but they usually ended with me hiding in my room crying. This was not how a boy—becoming a man—was supposed to act
From my inability to talk to girls to my incompetence in fixing my car (not to mention my lack of interest in cars), I was a walking embodiment of all-things not “masculine.” It is no wonder that I spent much of my teenage years convincing others, and myself, that irrespective of my sweet disposition, my lack of sexual experience, my muscle and presumed penis deficiencies, and my sensitivity, I was a “real man.” The public persona would highlight the qualities associated with an authentic masculinity. My private male self would remain closeted when at school, when playing sports, and when out with my friends. I recall many a nights where my own insecurity and the lack of visible diversity of alternative forms of masculinity prompted particular masculine performance, especially among male peers.
Often while out with “my boys” on Saturday nights, we would walk up and down various streets in Westwood (Los Angeles) or Santa Monica looking to get into trouble. Chests puffed out, with the proverbial swag walk, we were the living embodiment of boys just trying to be hard. On one particular night, I remember standing around when a group of police officers rode up on their bicycles. Seeing them out of the corner of my eyes, I turned in their direction to make sure they heard me: “What is this, a fucking donut convention?” In my mind, what could be manlier then screaming obscenities at the police? Doing so was tough, confrontational, and fearless. Never mind that my white, middle-class and male privileges allowed for my “boldness” and protected me from most all consequences. Nothing happened, at least nothing more than my attempt to reaffirm my masculinity. I was showing others and myself that, irrespective of anything else, I was a “real man.”
My own fetishizing of hip-hop culture and blackness—from the Malcolm X hat and Cross Colours shorts to my sagging overalls and braided hair—reflected my unconscious effort to prove my masculinity. Stereotypical and media framed visions of Black masculinity were central to my own desire to reset the scorecard. What could be more masculine than blasting NWA’s “Fuck the Police” or 2Live Crew’s “Me So Horny?” What could be more “masculine” than mimicking Doughboy’s swagger and O-Dog’s “don’t give a fuck attitude?”
The acceptance of media-generated stereotypes and the lack of vision for alternative forms of masculinity, coupled with my own security and ignored privilege, guided these disempowering yet rewarding performances.
This performative manhood guided so many of my teenage years. I was always looking for fights; although, I never wanted to fight. I wanted the rewards of proving my manhood without the potential of a bloodied lip or a black eye. This is why sports were so important to me. They provided an arena where I could highlight what I thought were the qualities of masculinity: physicality, brutality, and destructiveness. Whether on the basketball court or on the baseball field, playing lacrosse, rugby, or football, I saw myself as an enforcer. I played with anger and a chip on my shoulder; I was a thug, an ass, and always on the edge.
I knew of no other way to be a man; no other way to prove my masculinity. Yet, as a white middle-class “kid” I was always innocent and presumed to be nonthreatening. Still sweet, even as I looked for fights on and off the court.
My identity as a tough jock didn’t end with the conclusion of the game. My sense of manhood, based in notions of toughness, physicality, attitude, and force, anchored my entire life. My refusal to read, my disdain for learning, and my willingness to walk out of class in the midst of a lecture is illustrative of how I envisioned masculinity. Intellectualism (i.e. “being smart” or “being a nerd”) was rarely considered masculine. As someone who struggled with a learning disability, it is no wonder I embraced bar-jarring hits on the field, and contempt for learning as the basis of my masculinity.
My trash talking, bullying, my voicing and accepting sexist and homophobic jokes were all part of my effort to fit into the cookie-cutter definition of masculinity. Even my beard, which I have been growing since age 16, was originally part of my quest to fulfill this illusive and constructed ideal. I was stuck in America’s gendered classroom, refusing to and somewhat incapable of questioning my teacher’s lessons. I was failing. Rather than tearing up the test in the face of my teachers and rather than writing my own curriculum, I went to great lengths to be an honor’s student. Sure, I wasn’t an honors’ student when it came to sex, physical embodiment, and toughness. And yes, I liked to cook, taught nursery school, and was sweet. But, I was ready and willing to fight, which in my mind made up for my failures in my quest to be a “real man.”
Today, I remain in this classroom. Yet, I am not stuck in a class described by Rafael Casal as Barbie and Ken 101. I am working on getting an “F” there. Yet, I am learning. Feminist teachers are schoolin’ me each and every day. I am bearded and sensitive; I am sweet and competitive; I am soft and manly; I love to cook and cannot fix my car; I cry and do so often. I am vulnerable and scared, especially as I write these words. I don’t know if this makes me more or less of a man…because I don’t know what that means anymore. And I don’t care.
Original post appears on http://thefeministwire.com/2013/03/the-masculinity-scorecard/
Photo :Ivan Walsh/Flickr
The really sad thing about this piece is the isolation that David Leonard hardly talks about: that being considered either by himself or others as “less than a boy” terribly isolated him, without other models or allies in the “masculinity” score. I was a terrible outcast as a kid growing up queer, Jewish, and impoverished in the Deep South in the 1950s and early 1960s, terrible times for boys like myself. But I was lucky in that I had other boys who were equal outcasts with me, and who gave me a sense of not being alone in this. In… Read more »
The trouble is with media depictions of masculinity(esp black males) is the whole either/or business.
You are either Mr Milquetoast or Rambo(or in the case of black men, Stepin Fetchit or Superspade).
Personally I recommend Spike Lee’s 1992 biopic of Malcolm X as a “brother” who was neither!
Terry
Hi Dr David
I can relate. I am all those things that you describe as yourself. I never grew up though wondering what it was to be a man because I never thought about it; I never cared what other people thought of me other than my family – my dad’s opinion and influence were the most important.
If we men just focused on being the best we can be as a human being, the man thing will take care of itself.
Well, I certainly know the feeling of “sweet boy” feeling like the consolation prize, and not a very good one at that.
I know, it’s a very lonely feeling. You can’t take part in the world of boys because you’re not like them. You can’t access the world of girls, they won’t let you because you’re a boy. And they don’t want to relate to you romantically. About all you can do is listen to girls’ talk about the other boys, the ones they’re interested in, so they can complain that those guys aren’t “nice” like you are.
Don’t worry about it David. A real man shows up authentically himself, showing his true character and differences as a human being. He does not prosribe to what anyone else thinks a man should be because he already is one. There is this weird cultural view that all men should fit into this very narrow band of acceptable behaviors and actions, and to ytell the truth whenever I hear that THEY say the word should then I know that it is crap they just made up and is not true in itself. Because should is a weak word that can… Read more »
Is there a positive value to not being able to fix your car? Is that a piece of your identity you would not forego? Is that an example of other things most men can do that you cannot? If you cannot, why not? Would you lose something by learning how to fix your car, or do other things?