Learning to wear a mask (that word already embedded in the term “masculinity”) is the first lesson in patriarchal masculinity that a boy learns. He learns that his core feelings cannot be expressed if they do not conform to the acceptable behaviors sexism defines as male. Asked to give up the true self in order to realize the patriarchal ideal, boys learn self-betrayal early and are rewarded for these acts of soul murder.
~ bell hooks
I awoke early on Christmas Day 1946 brimming with anticipation. Searching frantically under the Christmas tree, I found Santa’s gifts of cowboy gear—hat, vest, chaps, boots, and two toy six-guns. But, to my utter dismay, there was no sign of the Shetland pony I was sure Santa was going to bring me.
Janie, my great aunt, and Mae, my great grandmother, pressed me to try on the cowboy outfit. “Santa won’t think you’ve been a good little boy if you don’t appreciate his nice gifts,” Janie said. Disappointed and disheartened, at first I sullenly rebuffed their entreaties. But then I looked at my mom, Sue, who smiled encouragingly, and finally, I succumbed.
While my dad Mack was serving in the Army then finishing college on the G.I. Bill, my mom and I lived in the Irving, Texas home of Mae and Janie, two well-meaning but aged women ill-suited for the role of surrogate parents into which they were thrust. And while I began life as an exuberant, highly sensitive, tenderhearted, curious boy, both of my older relatives made it clear that, if I wanted their love and acceptance, I must conform to their vision of a “good little boy”—obedient (“Speak only when spoken to at dinner and always clean your plate.”), cheerful (“There’s nothing to cry about, Brucie. Just put on a happy face.”), and emotionally restrained (“Stop that whining or I’ll give you something to whine about!”).
Employing the time-honored childrearing methods of the era—blaming, shaming, criticizing, withdrawing love, and spanking—my relatives did their best to mold me into the dominant cultural paradigm’s ideal of masculinity and away from any behavior that even hinted at femininity. My mom, young, fearful, and insecure, was typically overprotective of me, but she largely followed the lead of Janie and Mae. With no kids my age in the neighborhood, I hung out with Lucky, Mae’s mongrel dog, and I listened to the adventures of Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and the Lone Ranger every afternoon on the radio.
As a result of the negative feedback, I unconsciously began to doubt my worthiness and my lovability. For after all, how could these women care about me if they often treated me in such a callous manner? Furthermore, beneath the level of my awareness, I began to question my natural way of being, the essence of who I was, since it so often seemed to offend my elders.
Another Christmas came and went before I fully realized the pony would never materialize no matter how I longed for it. But without the pony, I’d never be a cowboy, and if I’d never be a brave, adventurous, heroic buckaroo, who was I to be? However, in 1948, while attending the SMU-Texas A&M college football game at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas with my dad, Plan B crept into my unconscious mind. The roar of the crowd as the teams ran onto the field, the rousing refrains from the band, the fans’ fervent adulation of the All-American running back after he ran for a touchdown; the seed was firmly planted.
After we moved to Mount Pleasant, Texas, I learned the rudiments of the gridiron during sandlot games with my coterie of neighborhood pals. Ed and Marvin, the two older guys, taught us the basic techniques and rules, then we chose teams, and the mayhem commenced. Our games took place on a nearby vacant lot almost every afternoon after school, and though we wore no protective gear, we played tackle rather than touch football. We suffered lots of minor bumps and bruises, but if we dwelled on an injury too long, Marvin or Ed would admonish us: “Suck it up and stop being such a baby!”
Scrawny, shy, and self-conscious, I was not one of the first players chosen, but I certainly became one of the most enthusiastic. Driven to conduct myself like I believed a real football player should and to fit in with my teammates, I unconsciously began to cobble together a persona based on the attitudes and behavior of my peers, adults, and radio and movie characters—tough, competitive, wary, and loyal. And after falling in line with my pals’ expectations, I was accepted as a full-fledged member of our little band of ruffians.
I never had second thoughts in 1955 about trying out for the Tullahoma (TN) Junior High football team after we’d moved there in the early fifties. It was just what boys did. While I was certainly not a standout player, I held my own and became a starter in my final year of junior high—the ninth grade. I savored the camaraderie and bond with my teammates, and it was clear that being a team member provided a higher social status with the other students (including the girls) than that of the guys who weren’t on the team. My dad, with unfulfilled gridiron aspirations of his own, was highly supportive and very proud of my efforts.
After playing on the junior varsity football team during my first year at Tullahoma High School, I became obsessed with becoming the best football player I could possibly be. I lifted weights religiously, ran sprints in the off-season, and abstained from alcohol and tobacco. I listened to the University of Tennessee Volunteer’s football games on the radio and visualized myself as a standout college receiver. And while I was not large for a football player—a little over six-feet tall and 175 pounds, I was strong, quick, and a vicious tackler and blocker, impulsively taking out my pent-up adolescent angst on my opponents. My junior year I became a starter on a team comprised almost entirely of seniors that went 8-2 and was ranked in the top ten teams in the state before running out of steam and losing two of our last three games.
Prior to my senior season in the autumn of 1960, the local newspaper sports columnist accurately asserted that this would likely be a rebuilding year for the Tullahoma High School Wildcats. We wound up with a 5-4-1 record, but gained momentum as the season progressed and won our last three games by large margins. I was voted team captain, chosen for the All-Midstate team, played in a high school all-American game in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and was awarded a full football scholarship at the University of Tennessee. Acknowledged and held in high regard by my fellow students, my teachers, and townspeople alike, I’d attained my vision of gridiron glory. But most importantly, I had achieved wholehearted acceptance by my teammates and my other pals.
To the outside world, I was the epitome of the All-American boy—athletic, attractive, bright, devil-may-care. But beneath this faux persona, this presenting drama, was my feared self—a weak, worthless, and unlovable twerp. Ever on high alert to keep others from recognizing this shadow side, I drove myself to always do the right thing, always say the right thing, always show up as the hotshot football hero. And whenever I slightest sense that my mask had slipped even a little, my fierce inner critic would judge me harshly, my brain would drop into fight or flight mode, my body would tense, and I’d descend into a shame spiral of hopelessness, humiliation, and embarrassment.
I had refrained from drinking entirely throughout high school in my pursuit of gridiron excellence. But it was springtime, and we were about to graduate, so what the hell. Donnie drove on that day in mid-May of 1961, Billy Ray had shotgun, and I sat in the back seat. We stopped at a dumpy little package store whose proprietor was known to sell beer to minors, and we each purchased a quart of Country Club Malt Liquor, which was reputed to have more bang for the buck. We cruised out the country road toward Rutledge Falls sipping our cold brew, laughing, joking, prematurely celebrating the independence that was at hand with the Shirelles’ “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” booming from the car radio.
Though it was more than sixty years ago, I still distinctly remember the malty smell and the slightly pungent taste of the beer, but mostly I remember the peaceful, serene feeling that came over me as the alcohol took effect. Not fully cognizant of it at the time, the tension in my jaws, my throat, and my shoulders diminished, and my inner critic went silent. I was immediately and unconsciously hooked.
A week later, in full view of the throng of relatives and onlookers, we members of the class of 1961 each crossed the auditorium stage to receive our diplomas during our solemn graduation ceremony. As usual, I was playing it cool, barely masking my impatience with the boring ritual in anticipation of some serious celebrating at the post-graduation party. Near the end of the ceremony, however, as we began to sing our alma mater for what would be the final time, I was suddenly overwhelmed with an unfamiliar emotion. Tears began to stream down my face, and terrified my classmates might see me crying, I hastily fled the assembly, and dashed to nearest restroom.
“Guys do not cry,” my mind censured me as I splashed cold water on my face and ran my hand through my flattop haircut. However, my heart told a different story as the perplexing feeling continued to well up in me—a powerful sense of impending loss borne out of the realization that my long-time comrades and I were about to go our separate ways.
Part 2 will be forthcoming soon.
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Previously Published n brucemulkey.com and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
