What Makes a Man?

         Recently, Mom and I were talking about what I thought defined a good man. I had been thinking about some memories of Dad, and was examining how they shaped me as a man. Mom put it on the nose when she said that Dad closed himself to everyone else. I could instantly call to mind how, on numerous occasions, I would bound into the living room and blabber to him about my computer game, or a book I was reading, and his eyes went empty. The television would drone in the background with Bonanza or whatever Eastwood flick was on that day. I'd always wondered why he always felt so far away from me. When I pointed that out, Mom asked me "What do you think makes a good man?" At the time, I had a ready answer. A good man is an antiquated term. A good person is someone who recognizes their flaws and works like a dog to right those things. Mom raised an eyebrow and nodded, but I could tell that she felt differently. Now I'm not sure if I was being insightful or just full of shit.
The critique of my detachment has been a running theme through almost all of my relationships. Recently, my girlfriend told me how I felt like a robot to her sometimes. She complained that I hid my feelings like a miser. She used words like "cruel", "cold", and "distant". She also told me about the times that I did show emotion with words like "anger", "fear", and "judgment". As an instant testament to her words, a compulsion to tear her down for an over-sensitive coward stalked my thoughts. She needs to walk it off, I thought. Why is she bothering me with these weak, vulnerable things?
I didn't lash out at her, and you can tell because I'm not single. Amalie and I have both had issues with opening up to each other, and we're working on it. I have to remind myself how emotion is one of the most powerful of things. Emotion can slice you open, tearing you asunder, and core out your being. It could also wrap you in a fuzzy blanket burrito and croon to you sweetly. When did emotion become as self-indulgent as binge watching Netflix while gorging on ice cream?
Amalie had me watch a movie with her a day after our argument. "The Mask You Live In" is a documentary made by Jennifer Siebel Newsom that examines how boys grow to act in these ways and more. As Amalie sat with me, old information passed before my eyes. Statistics about chauvinistic role models, violence, and negative behaviors brushed against my face like old friends seen seldom. I knew about every bit of information presented, but no one had lined them up for me, exposing them like a police line-up.
One scene depicted a group of boys with a youth advocate. Each of the boys was tall, but their frames still had the string-bean quality of teenagers finishing a growth spurt. They were encouraged to write down what they wanted people to see. Then, they were told to write what they wanted to keep hidden on the opposite side of that paper. When directed, they crunched their paper into balls and threw them across to another boy. Everyone would share what their paper said. Fear, anger, disappointment, and loneliness appeared most commonly on the hidden side of the paper.
One boy crumbled under the weight, sat with his head tucked into his arms, trying to make his pain secret once more. I squirmed uncomfortably; public crying was strictly forbidden. Another boy next to him simply reached out and put his hand on the first boy's shoulder. The acceptance and compassion contained in that gesture broke me. Tears snuck out from my eyes and I quietly sobbed. Even in my own home, with the woman I love sitting next to me, I was still ashamed. I dared her to ridicule me in my mind, but she just sat and let her hand rest on mine. I became aware that she was mirroring the scene before us.
I ached for that freedom. I was terrified by it.
Being accessible to your friends and family is only one part of character. Dad worked to instill character in all of his kids. He touted a sense of truth, of honor, of justice, and all of that jazz. Dad was never religious, but he could preach about the "right thing" with the best of them. He would point at us, pontificate for an hour or so, pretend to listen to our comments, and pass us on to Mom. He tried to teach us the art of scamming as much stuff for as little as you could manage to pay. He had given sermon on always being there for family. He would extol the virtue of consistency.
I would learn later that it was all self-centered. The ideas of morality and being loyal only applied to people around him, but never to him. He would judge others for being cheap, while hoarding money for himself. To this day, he has never made the effort to talk to me or my siblings about what happened since he and Mom split. I get a little text every birthday and at Christmas. A begrudging sense of obligation hangs around him the three times we've talked in the past five years. He has checked out and never looked back.
I think he lives in Oklahoma.
         It's easy to pick on Dad if you don't take into account his own father. I only spent time around Grandpa Cecil twice. I remember getting sick when he told me to chew some of his Redman tobacco and how he called me a sissy while laughing at my pain. I remember how the stench of cheap rum would wash over me when he walked by. Grandma used to ball him out for stopping at every bar to and from the oil fields of southeastern New Mexico. Many parts of their property seemed held up only by a fear of provoking the resident drunk. When he died, we threw away over a dozen empty half-gallon rum jugs. How could I blame my Dad for being closed off when he grew up around that?
         As a whole, men are getting better about opening up. We're working on being more compassionate and supportive. I also think that we haven't done enough. I watched this spring as my brother playfully called his two year old son a girl's name because he was crying. Cutting ourselves free of gender stereotypes is just the beginning. If we want our kids to be better off, we've got to break the cycle. Maybe learning from the mistakes of our fathers and grandfathers is what makes a good man. Maybe it's a lot more than that.
         Maybe I'm just full of shit again.