What can you learn about yourself by coping with and understanding the first time you were told that to “be a man”?
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You know when you struggle with being a man?
The expectations placed upon you by others is very strong. People who can’t cope with their own feelings often apply their definitions to you. You can’t help but feel out of place when you don’t meet those definitions.
What can you learn about yourself by coping with and understanding the first time you were told that to “be a man”?
I lived in fear of my father, but I also wanted him to love me. |
The first time that I was told to be a man was when I was ten years old. I was visiting my father in Lompoc, California. It was the first time I had a chance to see him since the divorce. All I wanted to do was spend time with him. This was three years after I was sexually abused as a child, and my mother told me to never tell my father about it. She didn’t want him to know about what happened because she was afraid that he would take me away.
I lived in fear of my father, but I also wanted him to love me. I wanted him to be a part of my life. I had no other man that I could look up to and have this man was important to me.
During the time that I spent with him, I learned a very valuable lesson.
I was not a man.
I was never going to be a man.
This was the first time that I identified with not being a man.
This all stemmed from receiving a bike I never wanted.
Why Are We Determined to be Men?
I don’t know what drove my father to it. I think it might’ve been the fact that I was too clingy. I was indeed a mama’s boy, and I had no drive or desire to act like a normal boy. I was content watching television, being alone on my own, and watching cartoons.
He wanted me to be a normal boy. He wanted me to be his son. Yet I was nothing like that.
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My father did everything he could to expose me to being a man. He exposed me to create works of fiction, terrible horror movies, and the interest in women. He tried his best to get me to enjoy sports and go after the girls that were flirting with me in the complex.
When I didn’t do that, he grew extremely frustrated. He didn’t understand why I didn’t have his same drive. He didn’t know what it was about me that kept me away from the others. He wanted me to be a normal boy. He wanted me to be his son. Yet I was nothing like that.
I couldn’t tell him about what happened to me. I already had enough shame from my mother and from myself. I couldn’t bear to tell him what happened because I knew that I would have to live with him. I knew that I would lose everything in the town that I loved.
It was a hard position to be in. It was a delicate dance I was ill-equipped for. It was a requirement I should have never accepted.
My father was annoyed with my lack of interest in boy things. I didn’t like cars. I didn’t like bikes. I didn’t like girls, well not in that way. I was ten. I was abused. I was healing. I didn’t need the affection.
During a visit with one of my father’s friends, I heard him mention he was concerned about me. He didn’t think that I was going to be the man that he wanted me to be. He wanted to push me into being a man. He wanted to take me away from the skirt that was protecting me. He had to show me that being a man was being more than being alive.
He took it upon himself to bestow a gift I never wanted. A bicycle.
Why Do We Admire Manliness Through Shame?
To be honest with you, I never wanted the bicycle. I wanted a toy. I wanted an expensive toy. I understood it was expensive, but I still wanted it. It was the Voltron on toy from 1986. It was the one that had five individual lions that you could assemble into the massive Voltron figure.
I loved the show, but my father couldn’t understand why. He was raised on horror. He lived with horror. He lived with the mother that couldn’t stand him. He lived in fear of his mother. His mother would beat and abuse him in his youth.
His definition of being a man was taking a stand and being assertive. His way of coping with it was taking the abuse through horror stories and dream about a better future.
My way of coping was to watch cartoons and try to enjoy a small piece of my childhood.
This did not sit well with him. When it came down to it I had two options. I could get the toy I wanted and be a soft child with no drive to be a man, or I could write a bicycle and be a boy.
He took it upon himself to make the decision for me. He bought the bicycle without me knowing and presented it to me as his gift to me. He told me that writing this bicycle would eventually make me a man.
All I wanted was the toy.
He told me to forget about the toy. I had to learn to ride this bike within a certain timeframe. I had to ride it on my own before I left for the summer. I was going to have to learn to ride it throughout the winter and spring before I came back to visit him again. He gave me a deadline to be a man.
It brought me back to when my grandfather sexually molested me. I had no choice in that matter, and I had no choice but to ride this bike.
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He didn’t understand the fear that I had. He didn’t understand the things that I was dealing with. He didn’t know the pain that I experienced. I couldn’t tell him. I was shamed into not telling him. I couldn’t let him know. If I tried these things and failed, it meant I wasn’t going to be able to live with my mother anymore.
It seems like in a logical leap in logic, but to a ten-year-old boy, it was completely logical.
That bicycle meant that I was going to lose everything. I didn’t have much, and soon I would have less, but for me, my entire world was going to crumble because of that bike.
But it was time for me to be a man.
Putting The Hopeful Man to The Test
We drove out to a neighborhood out in the middle of nowhere. Was on the outskirts of Lompoc, somewhere in the new district being built. He pulled the car over and nodded in satisfaction. This was the spot he was looking for. This is where I was going to learn how to ride. This was where I was going to be a man, by becoming a boy first.
I reluctantly stepped out of the car and watched him pull the bike from the hatchback. He placed it on the ground, patted the seat, and gave me a smile. It was time for me to be a man.
I climbed on the bike and felt true fear. I was afraid of getting hurt. I was afraid of pain. I was afraid.
My father couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let me be afraid. He grew frustrated with me. He told me to keep peddling. It was a shame that I was ten years old and he didn’t know how to write a bike. How can I skip such an integral part of being a man by not knowing how to ride a bike. How dare my mother not teach me how to ride a bike. That’s what a man’s for.
I pedaled around for a little bit, but I wasn’t interested. I just wanted my toy. I just wanted to stay at home. I just want to watch some cartoons. I wanted to study my baseball cards. Instead, I was forced to ride around on a bike.
I was triggered at that point. I was put in a situation that I didn’t like, and the flashbacks in my mind brought me back to when I was seven. It brought me back to when my grandfather sexually molested me. I had no choice in that matter, and I had no choice but to ride this bike. My ten-year-old mind couldn’t handle it.
I broke down and cried.
My father was furious. He couldn’t understand why I was crying over riding a bike. He knew at that moment I was not going to be a man. He also knew that he wasted his money on the bike that I didn’t want. I wasn’t excited about being a man. I wasn’t excited about being a boy. Instead, I was always going to be a mama’s boy. I was always going to be less than a man.
After allowing me to get off the bike, he sighed and shook his head. He gave me a very disappointed look. He told me to get in the car and threw the bike into the back, slamming the hatchback down as hard as he could.
The drive home was filled with tense silence. I tried talking to him, but he just shut down. That’s how I knew he was angry. That’s how I always knew that he was angry. I am much like my father in that way, and I do my best to make sure I don’t fall into that trap.
We made it home, and I hurried up the stairs. Wanted to get inside and go to my room. I knew there was a ticking time bomb walking behind me. I didn’t realize the pending explosion would cost me my identity.
I Was Not Eager to Learn Manly Abuse
My father sent me to my room and then came in right after me. He slammed the door behind him. Before I knew it, he closed the distance between us, picked me up, and slammed me against the wall. His rage was palpable. His face was red. His eyes were bulging. He leaned close.
“Don’t you dare turn down a gift again,” he said. “I bought you that bike for a reason. You’re going to ride it. You’re going to learn. You’re not going to say no.”
He released me, and I fell to the floor. I was shocked. This was the first time my father was really angry at me. This was the thing my mother warned me about. This was she shamed him about. His anger, his issues, boiled to a point that he slammed his own son against the wall.
His blind rage crushed my spirit. If that is what it took to be a man, then I swore right there I would never be a man.
But the shame-filled side of me told me I deserved it. I did this to him. I forced him to hurt me. I was so worthless that not only was I not going to be a boy, but I was never going to be a man. I deserved not to be happy. I deserved abuse. For the second time in three years, I was abused.
I sat in stunned silence and stared as my father slammed the door behind him. I could hear him menace to the living room and turn on the television. I waited for a moment as my young mind battled with two different emotions. I pulled my knees to my chest, I whimpered and tears fell down my cheeks.
I had failed my father. I wasn’t going to be the man he wanted. This act proved it.
Looking back nearly 30 years later, this was when I knew that I was not my father’s son.
I Deserved The Abuse My Father Gave Me
My father stewed out in the living room as I sat in stunned silence. I knew he was angry, but I wasn’t going to poke the bear. I didn’t even dare go to the bathroom, even though I knew I had to. I was so scared, I was afraid to use the bathroom. Since I was on the second floor, I wasn’t going to climb out the window to go find another place to go pee.
I just sat there.
Soon the television turned off, and I heard my father walk towards the door and open it. He poked his head in and stared at me. I stared back at him. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want him to hurt me again. I didn’t want to be slammed against the wall.
He must’ve known because he hung his head a little bit. He walked towards me, knelt beside me, and told me that he was wrong. He told me that he shouldn’t have done that. He told me that his anger got the best of him. He understood that he shouldn’t have done that.
We didn’t say much after that point, and for a few days, it was still somewhat tense. He did his best to try to draw me out of my shell, but at that point, the damage was done. A little part of me died that day.
A few weeks later, my Voltron toy showed up. I was happy as I could be with the toy, and soon the ugly incident had passed. However, a few weeks later, my father mentioned to his friend that he was upset he had to buy me the toy and the bicycle. It cost him $250 in total, and half of that investment was going to waste.
He didn’t know that I was listening to him, but I heard it all the same. My idol, the man I wanted to look up to, was disappointed in me.
I wasn’t going to be the man that he wanted.
In a way, I never wanted to be a man in the first place.
What Does It Take to Be A Man?
Our expectations are clouded by our experiences. Our evaluation of what the sexes are filtered through our trauma and our tribulations. Our definitions are what we’ve learned from our parents, from our friends, and from the other sex.
Most of the time the definitions are healthy. They are defined by social norms and standards placed by others. However, there are insidious definitions. There are damaging definitions that carry over from generation to generation. They are the toxic poison coursing through the veins of your family tree.
My examples were my grandfather, who molested children. My father, who was so angry at me slammed me against the wall and regretted investing in me. My uncle, who was abused by my grandfather and turned to a life of drugs and alcohol.
These filters led to my own delusion of what the definition of what a man should be. These filters made me choose not to acknowledge my manhood. These filters pushed me away from developing healthy relationships. These filters made me isolated, kept me alone, and forced me to wallow in shame and regret.
The term “be a man” is often used as a slur. It is often used as motivation to get one man to do something. The expectation is the shame will get them over their fear. The expectation is the fear will go away and the man will stand in front of you.
I stand before you now as a damaged individual who freely admits he is not a man.
I refuse to fall into that trap, and if you’ve gone through the same things I have, you would refuse too.
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Photo Credit: Jake Melara/Unsplash
Conservatives men think that they have the high moral ground when they try to shame men especially progressives and liberals because they think that those men are weak, soft, and have no spine or mental toughness.
Matthew-thank you for sharing your story. It breaks my heart to hear what’s happened to you and even more when I think of the many men who have dealt with similar abuse. The generational sins must be broken at some point, and it sounds like you are stepping out to be the one who begins the long process of breaking them. I think another part of this issue is how we define manhood. The old adage “men don’t cry” is stupid. In my book, a real man shows brokenness, fear, hurt, pain, and weakness, as well as strength, character, faith,… Read more »
Da fuck? That’s insane what happened to you. I don’t know therapy from a lawn mower, but even I can see that this was a childhood filled with abuse. We are talking about a 10 year old little boy, yes? We are talking about a man that was abused himself (maybe even his father’s first victim), and unable to face it, or deal with it? Isn’t that the cycle of abuse? I’m thinking that he felt just as powerless, no? Difference is that he could not face it? Seems that he sought to achieve his manhood vicariously through forcing the… Read more »
Many thanks for the words of inspiration and encouragement. I see this level of abuse and shame in a lot of men these days. I see the need to be perfect, to be manly. I understand the pressure men feel to posture and pose for approval they’ll never receive. What’s worse is he never did that the next child he reared. That man is my father’s son in every way. He is what my father wanted, and I am happy for him. This “brother” has a good life, so it means more in the long run for him to have… Read more »
I think the problem is that men are expected to achieve manhood by working through adversity.
We are expected to just take abuse, neglect, mistreatment, etc… and tough it out with little to no help because that is the rite of passage to becoming a man regardless of what kind of man you become.
Indeed this is something many men struggle with, but it only damages in the long run. Shame should never be an heirloom.
Agreed.
And I also think this is why even so called progressives think they are taking a moral high ground when they try to shame men into changing. They call it being inclusive but if once you wield shame as a weapon you have lost.