Please Don’t Tell My Son to “Be a Man”

Be strong. Be brave. Be kind. These are all things I’m okay with your saying to my son.

Be tough. Man up. Don’t be a pussy. Be a man. These things? That’s a hard no.

I’ve thought a lot about how, as two moms, we’ll model masculinity for Finn–and for our next son, too. It weighs heavily on me, always, as I’ve internalized so much of what our society says about the importance of manhood. I think about the fact that Finn doesn’t have a dad (something about which another blog post is brewing), and I wonder how that will impact his ability to grow into a man.

This is ridiculous, I know. Most of the ridiculousness stems from the fact that the educated side of me–the kinda woke side of me–knows that our perception of manliness is almost entirely a social construct. When I wonder whether Finn will be a man, what I’m really worrying about is whether his expressions of manliness will align with what is perceived as normative. I’m asking, “Will he fit the mold?”

Still, even with my own gender biases, which I’m not proud of, I’m hyper-aware of how other people approach Finn’s masculinity. This is partly because I’m a mother of a boy in a very damaged culture. It’s partly because I recognize that, since Finn has two moms, some folks are hyper-vigilant, looking for any signs that his masculinity is, in some way, being suppressed.  And it’s largely because of what happened in Parkland, FL, recently, and what happens all too often in a country when perceptions of masculinity become toxic.

Toxic masculinity is a term that elicits confirmational head nods from some and skeptical eye rolls from others. I’m no sociologist. So, I think that trying to explain the theory underlying toxic masculinity is beyond my purview–both as a blogger and as a mom.

And yet, here is what I do understand: When we tell little boys, repeatedly, to man up–to be a man–that is loaded and coded language. What are we really saying, when we say those things? And, perhaps more importantly, what are they really hearing?

Here is what I hear when someone says be a man:

• your current behavior, whatever it is, doesn’t align with my expectations of manhood;
• a “man” doesn’t cry;
• a “man” doesn’t express emotions or vulnerability;
• if you allow yourself to feel vulnerable, you are weak;
• weakness is shameful;
• you should overcome your weakness by regularly and firmly expressing your power;
• you should behave like a man, you should not behave like a woman;
• women are vulnerable, weak, emotional beings;
• you are better than women;
• if you’re a real man, prove it;
• you wouldn’t want people to think you are like a woman, would you?

Of course, there’s a lot more to it than that. And I’m not trying to vilify anyone who has ever used this phrase. I think intentions, often, are innocuous. But impact? Impact can be difficult to measure, and it’s something we must think about, especially when it comes to our kids.

Here’s what I think we must acknowledge: something is broken about the way we raise our boys. In an era of #metoo movements and mass shootings on a near daily basis, which both provide a clear lens into the many insidious ways in which men, almost exclusively, are the perpetrators; when we have a President who jokes about grabbing pussy and bears virtually no consequences for that kind of language, which he uses regularly; when victims of homophobic hate crimes are more often male than female; when gang violence becomes a rite of passage for urban boys; when we chastise men for crying but respond with “boys will be boys” when they are cruel or violent; when mental health treatment is stigmatized for men, especially, because admitting any struggle, as a man, is admonished; when we buy young boys tools and toy guns and young girls dolls and princess dresses; when we laugh when boys are rough and chide girls who are too bossy; when we say to someone who is only two–who asks for Skittles for breakfast and insists on having a sock monkey on him at all times and who likes to shower with Momma and play with make-up brushes sometimes and who, without any guidance or pressure, exhibits such tender kindness to others on a regular basis–when we say  be a man,  we are doing harm. There is an impact, there–one that is often underscored by innumerable comments, gestures, implicit and explicit messages–and one that amasses over a lifetime.

We spend a lot of time talking about gun control after mass shootings, as we should. It should be very, very difficult for a man who is angry and vulnerable–and one who wishes to express his frustrations through violence–to get a gun.

But we also have to ask ourselves: why are so many men angry and vulnerable and frustrated? Why are so many men resorting to violence?

As a mom, it is my responsibility to protect my son. I don’t do that with a gun. I do that by telling him: It’s okay to cry. Everyone feels sad sometimes. You don’t always have to be strong.

I do that by making sure that no on ever tells him to be a man.